'•^•;* 


y 


(I  W*S> 


->^ 


FAITH. 
From  a  celebrated  paintint,^  by 

C.     VON    BODKNHAUSEN. 


J 


Perfect  Pearls 


OF 


POETRY  AND  PROSE 


THE   MOST    UNIQUE,    TOUCHING,    INSPIRING    AND    BEAUTIFUL 
LITERARY   TREASURES 


THE    CHOICEST    GEMS   OF    POETRY    AND    PHILOSOPHY,    WIT    AND     HUMOR,    STATESMANSHIP 

AND    RELIGION,    CONTRIBUTED    BY    THE    WORLD'S    MOST    BRILLIANT 

MEN   AND   WOMEN  OF   GENIUS 


MORE    THAN    TWO    HUNDRED    AUTHORS    OF    ESTABLISHED  FAME 

AND  MANY  WHOSE  NAMES  ARE  UNKNOWN  ARE  REPRESENTED 

IN  THIS  PRECIOUS  CASKET  OF  PRICELESS   PEARLS 


THE    RICHEST    VOLUME    IN    ALL    THE    REALM    OF    BOOKS 


FOR  THE  HOME  CIRCLE 


PROFUSELY  AND  ELEGANTLY  ILLUSTRATED 


Edited  by  O.  H.  TIFFANY,  D.D. 


m         m 


C.  W.  STANTON  COMPANY 

CHICAGO,  ILL. 


'^. 


Copyrighted. 
C.  W.  STANTON  COMPANY 


CONTENTS. 


Publisher's  Preface 

IlfTRODUCTIOX 

Index  of  Authors  (Prose) 

IifDEX  OF  Authors  (Poetry) 

List  of  Full-Pac4e  Illustrations 

List  of  Other  Illustrations     . 

Perfect  Pearls  of  Poetry  and  Prose 

Index  of  Prose  (Titles) 

Index  of  Poems  (Titles) 

Index  of  Poems  (First  Lines) 


PAGE 

9 

11 

15 

19 

27 

29 

37 

709 

713 

723 


SUMMAEY 

Indexes  of  Authors,  First  Lines,  ate, 

Perfect  Pearls        

Full-Page  Plates        .... 
Total  Number       .... 


54  pages 
672  pages 

40  pages 
806  pages 


PUBLISHERS'    PREFACE. 


5N  preparing  these  "Perfect  Pearls"  the  Publishers  have  cooperated 
heartily  with  the  Editor  in  his  eflfort  to  produce  a  book  of  unequalled 
excellence.  He  has  gathered  the  "  apples  of  gold ;"  they  have  set 
them  in  "pictures  of  silver." 

Particular  attention  has  been  given  to  every  detail  of  the 
publication.  Paper  has  been  prepared  expressly  for  this  volume.  Ita 
texture  is  firm  and  durable ;  its  surface  is  elegantly  finished ;  and  ita 
tone  is  delicate  and  pleasing  to  the  eye. 

Typographical  effects  have  been  carefully  studied  at  every  point,  the 
aim  being  to  secure  beauty  in  the  page,  with  the  greatest  possible  com- 
fort to  the  reader.  In  the  matter  of  binding,  materials  have  been 
selected  with  reference  to  durability  and  elegant  appearance,  while  the 
workmanship  is  in  the  best  style  of  the  art. 

9 


10 


PUBLISHERS'   PREFACE. 


Illustrative  art  lias  been  taxed  to  the  utmost  in  tlie  adornment  of 
the  book,  and  in  its  pictorial  embellishment.  At  greatly  increased  editorial 
and  pecuniary  expense,  the  illustrations  are  all  made  to  elucidate  the  vari- 
ous poems  and  prose  pieces  of  the  text.  They  form  an  artistic  commentary 
on  the  choice  subject-matter,  and  give  a  cliarming  and  picturesque  effect  to 

the  entire  work. 

In  addition  to  the  numerous  full-page  illustrations,  there  are  countless 

smaller  artistic  engravings,  each  one  selected  because  of  its  special  fitness  in 

clearly  presenting  and  beautifying  the  text. 

Among  the  distinguished  artists  whose  jiictorial  gems  adorn  these 
pages,  are  Bensell,  Parley,  Grey,  Hill,  Hennessey,  Heine,  Herrick,  Kensett, 
Linton,  ^lacdonough,  McEntee,  Moran,  Parsons,  Smillie,  Soo}',  Schell, 
Sweeney  (Boz.),  and  many  others  equally  skillful. 

In  short,  whatever  care  and  generous  expenditure  has  been  necessary 
to  secure  completeness  and  elegance  has  been  lavishly  given  in  preparing 
"  Perfect  Pearls  of  Poetry  and  Prose."  It  is  now  presented  to  the  consid- 
eration of  an  appreciative  public,  with  the  hope  that  it  will  prove  a  blessing 
and  iuspuation  to  all  Avho  become  its  happy  possessor. 


"GEMS  FOR  THE  FIRESIDE." 

"TREASURY  FOR  THE  HOME  CIRCLE." 

"LIBRARY  OF  PROSE  AND   VERSE." 


;HESE  terms  from  the  title-page  of  the  Publishers,  admirably  and 

sufficiently  express  the  scope  and  aim  of  the  present  beautifully 

F      illustrated  volume.     It  has  been  the  constant  endeavor  of  both 

I         Publishers  and  Editor  to  gather  from  the  entire  range  of  litera- 

t        ture  the  very  finest  pieces,  and  the  accumulated  productions  of 

the  ages  have  been  scanned,  again  and  again,  in  order  to  secure  such 

Gems  as  shall  reach  the  high  standard  of  excellence  indicated  by  the 

Publishers  in  their  prospectus. 

Every  unique  work  in  literature  has  a  history  which  may  be 
thoroughly  known  and  felt  by  its  author,  and  yet  be  unknown  and  unsus- 
pected by  its  reader.  This  history  may  be  an  extended  one.  Great 
preachers  have  said  of  their  best  sermons,  that  it  had  taken  them  many 
years  to  prepare  them.  They  were  the  product  of  a  lifetime  spent  in  ob- 
servation and  study.  Gray's  Elegy,  revolved  in  his  own  mind,  was  re- 
written under  fresh  inspiration,  and  pruned  again  and  again,  until  that 

brief  poem  stands  as  the  one  beautiful  monument  of  his  literary  life. 

11 


12  INTRODUCTION. 


Poe's  name  and  fame  live  chiefly  in  that  wonderful  production  "  The 
Raven;"  the  outcome,  doubtless,  of  some  deep,  wild,  intense,  personal 
experience.  Miss  Nancy  Priest  wrote  nothing  comparable  with  her 
exquisite  "  Over  the  River,"  and  Mrs.  Alexander  gave  us,  to  be  treasured 
forever,  "  The  Burial  of  Moses." 

Exquisite  gems  of  literature,  in  prose  and  poetry,  are  not  often  the  pro- 
ductions of  the  cool  thought  of  men  and  women  of  genius,  but  rather  they 
are  the  outcome  of  some  all-absorbing  inspiration  resulting  from  intense 
personal  feeling,  or  from  some  momentous  event.  Patrick  Henry's  ever- 
memorable  words  were  fired  to  the  white  heat  of  devotion  to  his  country 
by  the  crisis  upon  which  hung  the  destinies  of  her  three  millions  of  peo- 
ple, and  the  question  of  freedom  to  this  New  World.  Only  the  demands 
of  a  terrible  crisis  in  the  great  war  of  the  Rebellion,  could  have  produced 
the  immortal  Emancipation  Proclamation. 

Not  unfrequently  the  accumulated  thought  of  years  is  fixed  and 
formulated  by  the  occurrences  of  an  instant.  Glowing  devotion  to  our 
country's  flag  found  quick  expression  in  "  The  Star  Spangled  Banner," 
when,  after  a  night  of  fierce  bombardment,  dawn  disclosed  it  still  proudly 
floating  over  the  walls  of  old  Fort  McHenry.  The  overwhelming  pride 
of  an  obedient  British  soldiery  gave  expression  to  the  pen  of  Tennyson,  in 
that  intense  and  thrilling  poem,  "  The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade," 
when  the  noble  six  hundred  made  their  famous  dash  at  Balaklava. 

As  the  great  crises  of  human  history  call  forth  the  great  utterances, 
the  world  may  never  have  another  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  or  "  Fool's 
Errand."  As  but  few  men  have  been  permitted  to  impress  humanity  by 
many  heroic  deeds,  so  but  few  poets,  philosophers,  statesmen,  or  orators, 
have  given  many  "  apples  of  gold  in  [)ictures  of  silver  "  to  the  world. 

Because  of  these  well-attested  facts  one  may  possess  many  volumes, 
in  most  of  which  a  few  beauties  form  the  chief  attraction.  The  gems  im- 
part the  value.  Witliout  thorn  the  volumes  would  lack  their  lustre.  Not 
the  mass  of  soil  and  rock,  but  the  gold  and  jewels  in  that  mass  give 
value  to  the  El  Dorados  and  the  Great  Bonanzas  of  the  world.  And  so  it 
is  with  books. 

In  gathering  "Gems  for  the  Fireside,"  real  gems  only  have  been 
Bought.     Numberless  productions  of  average  worth  have  been  passed  by. 


INTRODUCTION.  13 


Nothing  but  excellence  finds  a  place  in  this  treasury.  By  reason  of  its 
unique  character  and  wonderful  variety,  the  book  will  prove  a  welcome 
companion;  it  will  meet  every  mood  of  the  human  heart.  The  most 
exquisite  humor,  the  most  touching  pathos,  the  most  thrilling  patriotism, 
the  grandest  words  of  statesmanship,  the  most  impressive  utterances  of 
the  orator,  the  profound  reasonings  of  the  philosopher,  the  cutting  satire 
of  the  critic,  indeed  every  department  of  literature  is  fittingly  repre- 
sented in  this  treasury. 

And  these  "Gems"  are  for  the  "Fireside."  Nothing  harmful  must 
ever  enter  that  Eden,  but  all  influences  of  good  must  shield  the  purity, 
and  stimulate  the  holy  ambitions,  which  are  so  appropriately  enshrined  in 
that  sanctuary  of  embowered  bliss. 

"Home,"  to  an  ear  refined,  is  sweetest  of  spoken  words;  "Home," 
to  an  appreciative  heart,  is  fullest  of  good  impulses  and  holiest  memo- 
ries. "  Home "  is  the  goal  to  which  wanderers  return  in  thought 
and  hope;  it  is  the  influence  which  longest  retains  its  hold  on  earnest 
youth,  casting  its  starry  brightness  even  over  the  stormy  seas  of  vice 
and  dissipation ;  it  is  the  attraction  which  oftenest  lures  weary  prodigals 
back  from  error  and  from  sin  to  the  peaceful  happy  isles  of  the  blest; 
so.  Home,  which  is  to  all  men  the  symbol  of  love,  and  purity,  and  hope, 
must  have  its  "treasury"  of  "gems  of  purest  ray  serene." 

To  constitute  this  "  Library  of  Prose  and  Verse,"  the  literary  stores 
of  many  lands  have  been  put  under  contribution;  England  and  Germany, 
and  France  and  Italy  are  represented  by  their  choicest  Poets.  Eussia, 
India,  China,  Greece  and  Rome  are  present  in  admirable  translations. 
Our  own  America  will  be  seen  to  be  no  whit  behind  the  foremost  in  the 
full  and  copious  list  of  men  and  women,  who  have  made,  and  are  daily 
increasing  her  claims  for  prominence  in  the  world  of  letters.  We  have 
from  Europe,  the  master  mind  of  Shakespeare,  the  solid  grandeur  of 
Milton,  the  romantic  beauty  of  Scott,  the  homely  sincerity  of  Burns,  the 
philosophic  meditations  of  Wordsworth,  the  impassioned  lines  of  Byron, 
the  delicate  fancy  of  Shelly,  the  melodious  beauty  of  Moore,  the  mirth- 
ful humor  of  Hood,  and  from  America  the  "  very  choicest  productions  " 
of  the  most  famous  of  her  sons  and  daughters.  The  topics  and  themes 
are  as  varied  as  the  authors. 


14 


INTRODUCTION. 


Since  "  freedom's  battle  once  begun  "  is  a  perpetual  inheritance,  so 
round  the  fireside  the  ruddy  flame  of  a  loyal  patriotism  must  glow. 
And  heroic  sires  will  find  inspiration  for  their  sons  in  the  selections  from 
Campbell,  Longfellow,  Baker,  Everett,  Webster  and  Lincoln. 

As  the  Home  must  be  the  place  for  holy  breathings  and  for  conse- 
crated hearts,  it  will  be  found  that  a  number  of  selections  have  been  made 
from  Addison,  Bunyan,  Montgomery,  Muhlenburg,  Bonar,  Willis  and 
others,  whose  verse  and  meditations  are  alike  free  from  pious  cant  and 
bigoted  sectarianism. 

It  is  believed  that  this  collection  contains  vastly  more  of  entertain- 
ment, culture  and  inspiration  than  any  other  volume  of  like  size  and  price. 
It  has  been  prepared  at  great  expense  and  labor,  to  meet  a  want  felt  in 
every  home,  for  a  volume,  that  shall  be  for  every  day  use,  a  source  of 
constant  instruction,  inexhaustible  entertainment  and  permanent  good, 
that  will  cheer  the  solitary  hour  and  charm  the  entire  family  circle. 


0.  PI.  TlFFA'^Y. 


INDEX    OF   AUTHORS. 

(PROSE) 


Adeleb,  Max,  (Charles  Heber  Clarke). 

Catching  the  Morning  Train   .    .  61 

Ajtdessen.  Hans  Chkistiait. 

The  Little  Match  Girl 156 

Ajsionymous. 

The  Generous  Soldier  Saved   .   .  91 

Jimmy  Butler  and  the  Owl  .   »   o  101 

Good-night  Papa, 118 

Too  Late  for  the  Train 125 

Yankee  and  the  Dutchman's  Dcg.  131 

United  in  Death 137 

De  Pint  wid  Old  Pete 143 

Jenkins  goes  to  a  P'cnio  ....  163 

Pledge  with  Wine    ......  166 

The  Old  Wife's  Kiss 244 

The  Last  Station 271 

Sohooling  a  Husband 313 

Lord  Dundreary  at  Brighten  .    .  363 

Ettgulas  to  the  Roman  Senate.   .  370 

Mypochondiiac  ........  403 

Mariner's  description  of  fisuio  .  496 


A  Husband's  Experience  in  Cook- 
ing    519 

The  Life  of  a  Child  Fairy  ...  529 

Selling  a  Coat  ........  585 

My  Mother's  Bible    ....  811 

The  Noble  Revenge 6M 

The  Grotto  of  Antiparos  ....  636 

Fingal's  Cave .   »  648 

Winter  Sports .   =  667 

Bailey,  J.  M.,  (Danbury  News  Man). 

Mr.  Stiver's  Horse 112 

Sewing  on  a  Button 169 

Baxtee,  Richard. 

The  Rest  of  the  Just .54-5 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward. 

'Biah  Cathcart's  Proposal.  .    .    .  293 

Death  of  President  Lincoln  .  .   .  598 

Loss  of  the  Arctic 633 

Berkley,  Bishop  George. 

Industry  the  Source  of  Wealth  .  180 
li 


16 


AUTHORS  OF  PROSE. 


BiLLisGS,  Josh,  (Henry  W.  Shaw). 

Manifest  Destiny 457 

Beowk,  Charles  F.,  (Artemus  Ward). 

Artemus  Ward  at  the  Tomb  of 

Shakespeare 152 

Artemus  Ward  visits  the  Shakers  420 
Btjbke,  Edmund. 

The  Order  of  Nobility 227 

On  the  Death  of  his  Son  ...    .    231 
BuiTTAN,  John. 

The  Golden  City   ......   .    303 

Baker,  Edward  Dickinson. 

Worse  than  Civil  War 516 

Chapin,  Rev.  Dr.  Er>wis  Hubbfll. 

The  Ballot-Box 617 

Choate,  Rufus. 

The  Birth-day  of  Washington    .    444 
Clemens,  Samuel  L.,  (Mark  Twain). 

Uncle    Dan'l's    Apparition    and 

Prayer 121 

European  Guides 211 

Jim  Smiley's  Frog 610 

Buck  Fanshaw's  Funeral  .  .    ,    .    671 
CozzENs,  Frederick  S. 

The  Dumb-Waiter .......    279 

Geoly,  George. 

Constantius  and  the  Li  :ii    ...    239 
Cdmming,  Rev.  John,  D.  D. 

Voices  of  the  Dead  .       ....    298 
CuBTis,  George  William. 

Ideas  the  Life  of  a  People  .    .    .    -110 

Dickens,  Charles. 

Mr.  Pickwick  in  a  Dilemma  .    .  71 

Death  of  Little  Joe 134 

The  Drunkard'H  Death 189 

Death  of  Little  Nell 256 

Pip's  Fight 287 

Recol lections    of    my    Christmas 

Tree ''07 

A  Child's  Dream  of  a  Star  ...  345 

The  Paufi'T's  Funeral 365 

Mr.  Pickwick  in  the  Wrong  Room  375 
Nicholas  Nii'klehy  leaves  Dothe- 

hoys'  Hall 390 

Sam  Weller's  Valentine 532 

DiBfcAKLi,  Benjamin. 

The  Hebrew  Race 67 

Jeru.nalern  by  Moonlight  ....  568 


De  Qxjincet,  Thomas. 

Execution  of  Joan  of  Arc.  .   .    .    145 
Dougherty,  Daniel. 

Pulpit  Oratory „    .    .      81 

DwiGHT,  Timothy. 

The  Notch  of  the  White  Moun- 
tains       o   .    423 

Emmet,  Robert. 

A  Patriot's  Last  Appeal  ....  546 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo. 

Self-Reliance 607 

Everett,  Edward,  Hon.  LL.D. 

Last  Hours  of  Webster    ....  153 

Morning 355 

The  Indian  to  the  Settler  ....  463 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers 524 

The  Clock-work  of  the  Skies  .    .  630 

Feanklin,  Benjamin. 

Arrival  in  Philadelphia 657 

Feoude,  James  Anthony. 

The  Coronation  of  Anne  Boleyn  194 

Garfield,  James  A.,  President. 

Golden  Gems  (Selected  from  Ora- 
tions and  Writings)  ....    640 
Greenwood,  Francis  W.  P. 

Poetry  and  Mystery  of  the  Sea  .    175 
GouGH,  John  B. 

Buying  Gape-seed 57 

What  is  a  Minority 270 


Haliburton,  Thomas  C 

Soft  Sawder  iuid  Human  Natur.  646 
Hervey,  James. 

Meditation  at  an  Infant's  Tomb  321 
Hawthornk,  Nathaniel. 

Sights  from  a  Steeple 470 

Holland,  Josiah  Gilbert. 

Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp 201 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. 

The  Front  and  Side  Doors  ...      43 

Sea-shoro  and  Mountains  ....  416 
Howitt,  Mrs.  Mary. 

Mountains 427 

Hugo,  Viotoe. 

Cauf^ht  in  the  Quicksand ....    223 

The  Gamin 275 

Rome  and  Carthage 350 


AUTHORS  OF  PROSE. 


17 


Ibvikg,  Edward. 

David,  King  of  Israel 486 

Ievinq,  Washington. 

Baltus  Van  Tassel's  Farm  ...      49 

Sorrow  for  the  Dead 88 

Rural  Life  in  England 284 

A  Time  of  Unexampled  Prosperity  448 
The  Organ  of  Westminster  Abbey  474 

Sights  on  the  Sea 574 

The  Tombs  of  Westminster   .    .    621 

JiFFERsoN,  Thomas. 

The  Character  of  Washington    .    559 

Jerrold,  Douglas. 

Winter 55 

Mrs.  Caudle  needs  Spring  Clothing  478 
Mrs.  Caudle  on  Shirt  Buttons  .   .    499 

Jones,  J.  William. 

The  Responsive  Chord 614 

Kane,  Elisha  Kent. 

Formation  of  Icebergs  ....        627 
Arctic  Life 652 

Kelly,  Rev.  William  V. 

Sunrise  at  Sea    .       337 

Lamartine. 

Execution  of  Madame  Roland .  .  686 
Landor,  Walter  Savage. 

The  Genius  of  Milton 487 

Lincoln,  Abraham. 

Dedication  at  Gettysburg  ....    141 

Retribution 162 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington. 

The  Puritans 182 

Milton 232 

Images 264 

Tacitus    .    .   .    .    , 390 

Massillon,  Jean  Baptists. 

Immortality 207 

MacLeai.,  Mrs.  Letitia  E. 

The  Ruined  Cottage 96 

Milton,  John. 

The  Freedom  of  the  Press    ...  172 

Truth 198 

MosELE-i ,  Litchfield 

The  Charity  Dinner 326 

Making  Love  in  a  Balloon  .   .   .  590 

Pabk,  Mimoo. 

African  Hospitality 66 

Paekee,  Theodore. 

The  Beauty  of  Youth  ...       .697 


Phillips,  Wendell. 

Political  Agitation 506 

PoE,  Edgar  A. 

The  Domain  of  Arnheim  ....  433 
PooLE,  John. 

Old  Coaching  Days 579 

Porter,  Noah. 

Advice  to  Young  Men 598 

Prime,  William  C. 

Morality  of  Angling 38 

Habits  of  Trout 643 

Prentiss,  S.  S. 

New  England 105 

Purchas,  Samuel 

Praise  of  the  Sea 75 

Richter,  Jean  Paul. 

The  Two  Roads 109 

Riddle,  Mrs.  J.  H. 

The  Ghosts  of  Long  Ago ....  99 
Russell,  William  H. 

The  Light  Brigade  at  Balaklava  58 
RusKiN,  John. 

Improving  on  Nature 503 

Book  Buyers 660 

Selected. 

Gathered  Gold  Dust 4d 

Diamond  Dust 521 

Shellev,  Percy  Bysshe. 

The  Divinity  of  Poetry  ....  394 
Shillaber,  B.  p.,  (Mrs.  Partington.) 

Mouse  Hunting 217 

Sprague,  William  B. 

Voltaire  and  Wilberfcrce  ...  661 
Staitley,  Arthur  Pznrhyn. 

Children  of  the  Desert 385 

Stowe,  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecheb. 

Zeph  Higgins'  Confession   .    .   .    248 

The  Little  Evangelist 359 

Sumner,  Charles. 

Progress  of  Humanity 453 

Scott,  Sir  Walter. 

Rebecca  Describes  the  Siege  ]  .   .    539 

Talmage,  Rev.  T.  De  Witt,  D.  L. 

Dress  Reform 560 

Mother's  Vacant  Chair   ....  556 

Grandmother's  Spectacles.  .    .    .  676 

Shooting  Porpoises 704 


18 


AUTHORS  OF  PROSE. 


Tab305,  Charles. 

Scene  at  Niagara  ........    234 

Taylor,  Jeremt. 

Useful  Studies 292 

Wabker,  Charles  Dudley. 

Uncle  Dan'l's  Apparition  and  Prayer  121 

The  Coming  of  Thanksgiving  .    .   .  l-iS 

Out  Debt  to  Irving 563 

ffASursGTOS,  George. 

Address  to  his  Troops 408 

Inaugural  Address 603 

Webster,  Da-siel. 

Crime  Self-Revealed 632 


Whitcher,  Frances  Miriam. 

The  Widow  Bedott's  Poetry 
Whitset,  Mrs.  Adeline  D.  T. 

The  Little  Rid  Hin  .    . 
Whipple,  Edwin  F. 

The  Power  of  Words.   .   .   . 

WiET,  William. 

The  Blind  Preacher  .  .  .  . 
Wiley,  Charles  A. 

Caught  in  the  Maelstrom  . 
Wylie,  J.  A. 

Defence  of  Pra  Del  Tor  .   . 


.  82 

.  482 

.  665 

.  18S 

.  412 

.  690 


INDEX    OF    AUTHORS. 

(POETRY) 


Adams,  Osables  F. 

The  Puzzled  Dutciiman  =    .  .  .   =    151 

Pat's  Criticism 154 

The  Little  Conqueror 1'35 

Der  Drummer 297 

Hans  and  Fritz  ...                ■    .    311 
Leedle  Yawcob  Strauss 418 

Aj)Diso5,  Joseph. 

Cato  on  Immortality 391 

Akees,  Elizabeth. 

Rock  me  to  Sleep,  Mother  .    .    .    274 

Alexander,  Mrs.  C.  F. 

The  Burial   of  Moses  ...        .289 

Algee.  H.,  Jr. 

John  Maynard 406 

Alger,  William  Pw.,  (Translator). 

The  Sufi  Saint 2S4 

The  Parting  Lov^ers -356 

Altesburg,  Michael. 

Battle  Song  of  Gustavus   Adol- 

phus 430 

AUACREOH. 

The  Grasshopper  King 42 


Axosraors. 

Shall  we  know  each  other  there  ? 

Song  of  the  Decanter 

The  Farmer  and  the  Counsellor . 
Charley's  Opinion  of  the  Baby  . 

Socrates  Snooks 

Papa's  Letter    .... 

Betty  and  the  Bear 

Love  lightens  Labor 

"  Love  me  little  Love  me  long  ". 

Scatter  the  Germs  of  the  Beautiful 

Old  School  Punishment 

The  Poor  Indian  . 

Two  Little  Kittens 

Motherhood    .    .    . 

Roll  on  thou  Sun  . 

Twenty  Years  Ago 

The  Nation's  Dead 

Call  me  not  Dead  . 

The  Sufi  Saint  .    . 

Putting  up  o*  the  Stove 

The  Engineer's  Story 

The  Baggage  Fiend  . 


£9 

87 
100 
120 
124 
168 
171 
182 
191 
195 
209 
007 

229 
229 
234 

261 
266 
269 
284 
290 
295 
300 


19 


20 


AUTHORS  OF  FOEMS. 


The  Song  of  the  Forge    =    .    .    . 

Civil  War 

Go  feel  what  I  have  felt  .... 

Paddy's  Excelsior 

Chinese  Excelsior 

Father  Time's  Changeling  .    .    . 

Prayers  of  Children 

Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep  .  . 
The  Frenchman  and  the  Rats  . 
The  Parting  Lovers  ...... 

Annie  Laurie =    .    . 

A  Kiss  at  the  Door.  ...... 

Clerical  Wit 

Lines  on  a  Skeleton 

Song  of  the  Stormy  Petrel  .    .    . 

Paying  her  Way 

The  Chemist  to  his  Love  .... 

No  Sects  in  Heaven 

Evening  brings  us  Home  .    .    . 
John  Jankin's  Sermon    .... 

The  Laugh  of  a  Child  ..... 

Dot  Lambs  what  Mary  Haf  Got 
St.  John  the  Aged ....... 

■'  The  Penny  ye  meant  to  Gi'e." 

The  Mystic  Weaver 

Mrs.  Lofty  and  I 

Our  Skater  Belle 

Searching  for  the  Slain    .... 

The  True  Temple 

The  Drummer  Boy 

Two  Views 

Our  Lambs 

Dorothy  Sullivan 

Tlie  Eggs  and  the  Horses .... 

The  Maple  Tree „   .    . 

A  Wf»man's  Love . 

A  Mother's  Love  ....... 

A.RK WRIGHT,  I'F.I.KO. 

Poor  Little  Joe 

Allinouam,  William. 

The  Fames 

Aehold,  Edwis,  (Trinslator). 

Call  mo  noL  Dead 

Arnold,  Qv.nnnr.. 

The  Jolly  Old  PedaRogue  .  .  . 
A.TTOUNK,  William  E. 

Til"  Bnri'-'l  KImW'  r    .    .  ■    • 

BiiCHE,  Ahi*a 

Th.)  Quilting 


304 
318 
31S 
323 
324 
324 
329 
332 
335 
356 
385 
401 
401 
417 
440 
452 
469 
500 
502 
543 
549 
567 
575 
581 
587 
596 
597 
602 
615 
616 
625 
629 
685 
694 
609 
702 
703 


358 
515 
269 

258 

56 


Barxaed,  Lady  Anne. 

Auld  Robin  Gray  .......    173 

Beattie,  James. 

The  Hermit   ......    o..    595 

Law 679 

Bell,  Chas.  A. 

Tim  Twinkleton'p  _  vvins  ....    106 

Besnaed  De  Moklaix. 

The  Celestial  Country 650 

Bickersteth,  Edward. 

The  Ministry  of  Jesus  ,    =    .   .    .    703 

Blake,  William. 

The  Tiger .    357 

Bokee,  Geoege  H, 

Battle  of  Lookout  Mountain  .    .    57ff 

Bonar,  Hoeatius. 

Life  from  Death ,    .    .    170 

Beyond    the    Smiling    and    the 

Weeping 268 

Beainaed,  Mart  G. 

He  Knows 577 

Beooks,  Chaeles  T.,  (Translator). 

Winter  Song  . 596 

Beowning,  Elizabeth  Barrett. 

Sonnet  from  the  Portuguese   .   .    370 

A  Portrait •  .    388 

The  Cry  of  the  Children  ....    699 

Brown,  Emma  Alice. 

Measuring  the  Baby 520 

Bryant,  Wm.  Cullen. 

Forest  Ilymn 37 

Waiting  by  the  Gate 77 

Song  of  Marion's  Men 133 

Thanatopsis  , 214 

"  Blessed  are  they  that  Mourn  ".    242 
The  Death  of  the  Flowers  ...    349 

Robert  of  Lincoln 387 

The  Murdered  Traveler  ....    402 
To  a  Water  Fowl  .......    626 

The  Crowded  Strceta 567 

God  in  the  Seas 694 

Buchanan,  Robert. 

Noll S93 

BuNOAY,  George  William. 

The  Creeds  ot  tho  Bells  ....    309 
Burns,  Roisert. 

ninhliind  Mary 262 

Duncan  Gray  cam'  Lore  to  woo.     336 
John  Anderson,  My  Jo 469 


AUTHORS  OF  POEMS. 


21 


Bt«on,  Lord  Geobge  Gordon. 

Cooke,  Philip  P. 

The  Orient 

221 

Florence  Vane 

281 

The  Sea  

262 

Coolidge,  Susan. 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib 

296 

When 

450 

His  Latest  Verses 

484 

Cornwall,  Barry,  (Bryan  W.  Procter) 

Campbell,  Thomas. 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 

551 

The  Blood  Horse 

The  Poet's  Song  to  his  Wife  .    . 
The  Sea  

42 

68 
362 

The  Soldier's  Dream 

Canning,  George. 

The  Needy  Knife-Grinder  .    .    . 
Gary,  Phcebe. 

Kate  Ketchem 

Dreams  and  Realities 

Gary,  Alice. 

My  Creed 

Cableton,  Will.  M. 

578 

228 

The  Owl 

The  Stormy  Petrel 

Cranch,  Christopher  Pearse. 

422 
439 

461 
485 

266 

By  the  Shore  of  the  River  .    .    . 
Cunningham,  Allan. 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea 
Cutter,  George  W. 

The  Miser 

517 
587 
226 

Gone  with  a  handsomer  Man  .    . 

139 

Dana,  Richard  Henry. 

Goin'  Home  To-day 

265 

The  Pleasure  Boat 

60 

Betsy  and  I  are  out 

381 

Derzhavin,  Gabriel  Romanovitch. 

Betsey  Destroys  the  Paper  .    .    . 

383 

God 

537 

The  New  Church  Organ  .... 

588 

Dobell,  Sydney. 

Over  the  Hills  to  the  Poor-House  679 

How's  my  Boy  ? 

353 

Out  of  the  Old  House,  Nancy  .    . 

697 

Dodge,  Mrs.  Mary  Mapes. 

Case,  Phila  H. 

Learning  to  Pray 

331 

Nobody's  Child 

302 

The  Minuet 

340 

Catlin,  George  L. 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman. 

The  Fire-Bell's  Story 

554 

The  American  Flag 

467 

Bread  on  the  Waters 

612 

Donnelly,  Eleanor  C. 

Chalkhill,  John,  (Isaak  Walton). 

Vision  of  Monk  Gabriel  .... 

659 

The  Angler 

205 

DuFFERiN,  Lady. 

Gibber,  Colley. 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant  . 

62 

The  Blind  Boy 

365 

DuRYEA,  Rev.  William  E. 

Cleveland,  E.  H.  J. 

Shibboleth 

583 

A  Song  for  Hearth  and  Home    . 

543 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh. 

Eager,  Cora  M. 

As  Ships  Becalmed 

422 

The  Ruined  Merchant 

197 

COATES,    ReYNELL. 

Eastman,  Charles  Gamage. 

The  Gambler's  Wife 

688 

A  Snow-Storm 

409 

Cobb,  Henry  N. 

Effie,  Aunt. 

Father,  Take  my  Hand  .... 

333  1 

The  Dove  Cote 

232 

The  Gracious  Answer 

334 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo. 

Collins,  William. 

The  Snow-Storm 

63 

Sleep  of  the  Brave 

605 

Mountain  and  Squirrel     .... 

590 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor. 

Sunrise  in  Valley  of  Chamounix. 

663 

Fawcett,  Edgar. 

Coles,  Abraham,  (Translator). 

1 

A  Prayer  for  my  Little  One.  .    . 

682 

Dies  Irae 

456  1 

Fields,  Jame.=!  T. 

Stabat  Mater 

504  1 

The  Tempest 

203 

Cook,  Eliza. 

Ford,  Mary  A. 

The  Old  Arm-Chair 

285  ' 

A  Hundred  Years  from  Novf  .    . 

ir 

AUTHORS  OF  POEMS. 


Feeiligkath,  Ferdinand. 

The  Lion's  Ride 45o 

Feeneao,  Philip. 

Indian  Death  Song 518 

Gage,  Mes.  F.  D. 

The  Housekeeper's  Soliloquy.  .  78 
Gaedette,  C.  D. 

The  Fire-Fiend 160 

Gabrett,  Edward. 

The  Unbolted  Door  .....  129 
Geeot,  Paul. 

The  Children's  Church 692 

GiLMAJf,  Caroline. 

The  American  Boy 268 

Goethe,  Johann  Wolfgang. 

The  Soul  of  Eloquence 97 

The  Church  Window 358 

GoDDAED,  Julia. 

Hide  and  Seek 454 

Goodrich,  Orrin  . 

Borrioboola  Gha 525 

Geahame,  James,  Rev. 

The  Sabbath 610 

Gray,  Thomas. 

Elegy  in  a  Country  Church-Yard.  203 

Haet,  T.  B. 

The  Reveille 618 

Habte,  Feancis  Bret. 

Miss  Edith  helps  things  Along   .  2r)i 

Fate 258 

Jim 3:;;9 

Dow's  Flat 42G 

Bill  Ma.son'H  Bride ^8 

Haveroal,  Frances  Ridley. 

The  Lull  of  Eternity 62G 

Hat,  John. 

The  Law  of  Death 517 

Heine,  HEiNuicn. 

The  Fifiher's  Cottage 25.^ 

Hemans,  Frmcia  Dorothea. 

Tlio  IIomfM  of  England 64 

Landing  of  the  PilprirriR .     .    .    .  205 

The  Mcoting  of  the  Ship.^   .    .   .  230 

Hour  of  Death 074 

Hekderson,  William  H. 

"  No  more  Sea." Oil 

Hetwood,  Thomas. 

Song  of  Birds 371 

Holland,  Josfah  Gilbert. 

Cradlr.  Hong 277 

vlradaiim 558 

Whore  Shall   15aby"H   Dimjde  Be?  G8'J 


Holmes,  C.  E.  L. 

You  put  no  Flowers  on  my  Papa's 

Grave 192 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. 

The  wonderful  One-hose  Shay    .  69 

Under  the  Violets 267 

Union  and  Liberty 273 

A  Tailor's  Poem  on  Evening  .    .  445 

Bill  and  Joe 458 

The  Last  Leaf 512 

Hood.  Thomas. 

The  Death-Bed 199 

The  Comet 260 

I  Remember 273 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt 282 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 354 

Ruth 367 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray 405 

No 506 

Nocturnal  Sketch 609 

Holty,  Ludwig. 

Winter  Song 596 

Hoyt,  Ralph. 

Old 431 

Hugo,  Victor. 

TheDjinns 468 

Hunt,  Leigh. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 225 

Ingelow,  Jean. 

When  Sparrows  Build 471 

Seven  Times  Two 619 

Jones,  J.  A. 

The  Gladiator 565 

Jones,  Sir  William. 

What  Constitutes  a  State?  .   .   .    367 

Key,  Francls  Scott. 

The  Star  Sjiangled  Banner  .    .    .    466 
King,  Henry. 

Life 642 

Kinosley,  Charles. 

The  Lost  Doll 311 

The  Sands  o'  Dee 392 

The  Merry  Lark 463 

Knox,  William. 

Whv  ^'huuld  (he  Spirit  of  mortal 

lie  Proud? 411 

KoKNER,  Charles  Theodore. 

Sword  Song 313 

LaMI'ERTIITS. 

A  (Jeririan  Trust  Song 58f 


AUTHORS  OF  POEMS 


23 


Letghton,  Robert. 

Jcha  and  Tibbie  Davison's  Dispute  572 

Lelaud,  Charles  G.,  (Translator). 

The  Fisher's  Cottage 253 

Levee,  Charles  James. 

Widow  Malone 375 

LoroFELLow,  Henry  Wadsworth. 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs.  .    .  40 

The  Bridge 51 

The  Rainy  Day .  88 

Embarkation  of  the  Exiles.  .    .  90 

The  Silent  River 220 

A  Psalm  of  Life.  . 241 

Maidenhood 246 

Resignation 251 

Excelsior 322 

Hiawatha's  Journey 342 

Hiawatha's  Wooing 344 

Hiawatha's  Return 345 

The  Launching  of  the  Ship.    .    ,  389 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield  .    .    .  424 

God's  Acre 498 

Evangeline  on  tie  Prairie.  .   .   .  505 

Day-dawn 549 

The  Children's  Hour ......  656 

The  Chamber  Over  the  Gate  .    .  693 

The  Day  is  Done  .    , 706 

Lover,  Samuel. 

The  Angel's  Whisper 277 

Lowell,  James  Russell. 

The  First  Snow-fall 137 

The  Rose 669 

LowBY,  Rev.  Robert,  D.  D. 

I  Love  the  Morning  Sunshine .  .  275 

Dust  on  her  Bible .  666 

Ltns,  Ethel. 

Why  ? ,655 

Ltttok,  Lord  Edward  Bulweb. 

There  is  no  Death 451 

Macdonald,  George. 

Baby 82 

Mackat,  Charles. 

Little  and  Great 441 

Cleon  and  1 597 

Clear  the  Way 623 

MiGHONETTE,    MaY. 

Over  the  Hills  from  Poor- House  .  681 
MiLLEB,  Joaquin. 

Kit  Carson's  Ride 472 

2 


Miller,  William  E. 

Wounded.  .....,,=       .    188 

Milman.  Henry  Hart. 

Jewish  Hymn  in  Jerusalem.    .    •   502 

Milnes,  Richard  Mokcrton 

London  Churches  ...••'.    237 
The  Brock  Side.    .......    247 

Mitchell,  William. 

The  Palace  o'  the  King.  ,   ,    .   .    288 

M'Callum,  D.  C. 

The  Water-Mill .    20C 

M'Keever.  Harriet  B. 

The  Moravian  Requiem  ....    225 
Snow-flakes.  . 243 

Montgomery,  James. 

My  Country  .........    179 

Servant  of  God,  well  doae  .    .    .    254 

Night 3Gi 

The  Pelican  .   .    , 446 

Moore,  Thomas. 

The  Home  of  Peace 337 

The  ;Meeting  of  the  Waters.   .   .    484 

The  Light-House ,    .    513 

Echoes 645 

Moreis,  George  P. 

My  Mother's  Bible  .......    523 

Moultrie,  John. 

The  Three  Sons 52S 

Muhlenberg,  Rev.  William  A.,  D  D. 

I  would  not  live  alway 353 

Mulock,  Dinah  Maria. 

Buried  To-day 243 

Munfobd,  William. 

To  a  Friend  in  Affliction  ....    688 

Nairne,  Lady  Carolina 

The  Land  o*  the  Leal  ....       421 

Norton,  Caroline  E. 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine    ....         86 
The  King  of  Denmark's  Ride    .    379 

O'Brien,  Fitz  James. 

The  Cave  of  Silver 568 

Osgood,  Frances  S. 

Labor  is  Worship 619 


Palmer,  John  W. 

For  Charlie'.^  Sake .641 

Payne,  John  Howard. 

Home,  Sweet  Home  .    .    .   .    :        6JA 


u 


AUTHORS  OF  POEMS. 


PebcivaIv-  3  AiiES  GAraa 

The  Coral  Gi«re.  ......   .    678 

Pbttee,  Geoege  W, 

Sleighing  feoag  ,   -. 338 

PlE&POSJ,  Jgh5 

Net  OD  ifce  Battle-field   ....    531 

PCE.  EdGAB  Al.i'.K.V. 

Ihe  Raven  .  ,   .   , 158 

Ansabel  Irte  =   . 553 

TLc  Beils  ........   o    .    593 

pOTTATiT).  JOSSFHIBE. 

Tie  First  Party    .   , 414 

PsiJXfs?.  E. 

The  Mysttery  o<"  Lil^  in  Christ  .    233 

PbESTOS.  MASaAEKT  J, 

The  Ile.'/o  of  the  Commune  .  .    .    278 
Fbiest.  Iij>:sc7  Amelia  Woodbuet. 

Oxer  the  River 142 

PBCCTOB.  AlitLAIDE  ANKE. 

A  Legend  oi  Bregenz 62 

A  Fii8t  Sorrov7  o   .......  179 

A  Woman's  Question 358 

Per  Pacem  ad  Lucem, 553 

The  AngeVe  Story.    ......  637 

pjicuT,  Fatheb. 

The  Bells  of  Sliaaoloii. 573 

Rai-eioh,  Sis  Walieb. 

The  Wytart  9  Reply  to  the  Shep- 
herd ...........    381 

Ralph,  Rev.  vV  S. 

WbiEtling  in  Heaven 116 

Ratmofd  Rossiier  W 

Rambling^  in  Greece.  „   .   .   .   .    696 

Bead,  Tho.yas  Lvcha-SAN, 

Dnfting 210 

Sherdan's  Ride. 536 

The  CloBing  Scene 556 

BOBBIBS,  AUCB. 

Left  Aione  tt  Eighty 372 

Joe o 514 

Bosenoafxen 

Throagt  Tnair. 658 

Iam.,  .Scpv  OorFKFY. 

/.TDcnoap  Ariftocr»ry 71 

touy  of  Iur*'aje» 95 

7,Lo  Cockney  .',........  193 

Early  Rising 341 

BtiKd  fJ';D  iD'ltho  Elephant .   .  398 

I  as  Qrowing  Old      438 


SooTT,  SiE  Walter. 

Patriotism 234 

Selected. 

Life  (From  Thirty-eight  authors).    496 

Shakespeare,  Willlam. 

Hark,  hark  the  Lark 319 

Airy  Nothings 325 

Mercy 379 

Quarrel  of  Brutus  and  Caseins  .    476 
Selected  Gems 634 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe. 

To    Night 242 

The  Cloud 437 

The  Sun  is  Warm,  the  Sky  ...    601 

Shillaeee,  B.  p.,  (Mrs.  Partington.) 

My   Childhood's   Home  ....    196 

SiQOUEJfEY,  Mrs.  Lydia  Huntley. 

The  Coral  Insect 146 

The  Bell  of  "  The  Atlantic"  .   .    184 
Niagara  ..........   o    647 

Smith,  Dexter. 

Ring  the  Bell  Softy  ......    282 

Smith,  Mary  Riley. 

Sometime 373 

Smith,  James. 

The  Soldier's  Pardon  .    .       .    .    236 

Smith,  Horace. 

The  Gouty  Merchant 216 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers  .   .    .   •    .    255 

Smith,  Seba. 

The  Mother  in  the  Snow-Storm  .    513 

Snow,  Sophia  P. 

Annie  and  Willie's  Prayer  .  395 

Scuthey,  Mrs.  Caroline  Bowle.s. 

The  Pauper's  Death-Bed  ....    216 

Southey,  Robert. 

The  Cataract  of  Lodore  .     ■  .   .    248 
The   Ebb-Tide 418 

Spenser,  Edmund. 

The  Ministry  of  Angela  ....    702 

Spooner,  a.  C. 

OM  Times  and  New 429 

Sprague,  Charles 

I  Sec  Thee  Still 144 

Stedman,  Edmund  Claeesok. 

The  Door-Step  ........    368 

Stoddakt,  William  0. 

The   Doacon'c  Prayer .....    820 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henby. 

Wind   and    Ram .    414 

Funeral  of  Lincoln  ......    OOO 


AUTHORS  OF  POEMS. 


26 


Stort,  Rcbeet. 

The  Whistle ,    .    .    283 

SUOKUNG,  SlE   JOEH. 

The  Bride  ......,,..    642 

SWINBUENE,  ALGEEifOH  ChAELEI. 

Kissing  her  Hair 52 

Taylce,  Benjamut  F. 

The  Rivar  Time  .    .    .   .    o    «   «   .  64 

The  Old  Viliago  ChoiSj: . .   .   ,  ,  677 

Taylor,  Bayae3>. 

The  Quaker  Widow  ......  110 

Taylce,  Jeffeeys. 

The  Milkmaid  ........  199 

XaiTNYSoir.  Alfeed. 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  .    .  59 

Song  of  the  Brock  .__.....  222 

Enoch  Arden  at  the  Wroidow  .   »  252 

Death  of  the  Old  Year  .....  316 

Break,   Break,  Brsak  >   .    =    .   .  348 

The  Eagle 384 

Now  Year's  Eve  .......  38? 

The  Bugle  ..........  436 

The   Day  Dream  .......  480 

Lady  Clare.    ...„,....  631 

^ifHOMAS  OF  CeLANO. 

Dies  Ira  .....-...    =    c  466 
ThuelotV;  Loed,  (Edward  Hovel). 

The  Patient   Stork ,450 

Tbowbeidgu,  John  Tcwjisekd. 

The    Vagabonds  .......  130 

Farm- Yard  Song.  .,..,..  352 

The  Charcoal  Man  ......  425 

Uhland.  Johastk  Ludwig 

The  Lost  Church  .....    622 

Vakjjyke,  Maey  E. 

The  Bald-Headed  Tyratti;  ...    687 

Watson,  James  W 

Beautiful    Snow   .......    443 

Weatheely,  G. 

"A  Lion's  Head."  ,  ......    181 

Westwood,  Thomas. 

The  Voices  at  the  Throno.   ...    527 


'^i'/'niTE,  Heney  Kieke. 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  .    .    . 
White,  Mrs.  Sallie  J. 

Little  Margery . 

Whitchee,  Feances  Mietam. 

Widow  Bedott  to  Elder  finiffles 
Y/hittiee,  John  Geeenleaf. 

Cobbler  Keezar's  Vision  .    .    . 

Skipper  Ireson's  Rido  .... 

Trust  

Barbara  Fristchie 

Benedicito 

The  Poet's  Reward 

The  Vaudois  Teacher  .... 

The   Barefoot  Boy 

Maud   ^luller 

Mabel   Martin 

The  Ranger   . 

Mary  Garvin 

The  River  Path 

My  Playmate 

The  Countess 

The  Changeling 

WiLCCX,  Caelos 

Doing  Good  Tree  Happineas  . 
Willis,  Nathaniel  Paekee. 

Da.vid  s  Lament  for  Absalco:  . 

The  Dying  Alchemist  .... 

The  Belfry  Pigeon.   .    .   .   .    - 
Wocdwoeth,  Samuel. 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket,  .   .   . 
Wilson,  Mes.  C  )ekwall,  BARoa'. 

Answer  to  the  Eooi  cf  Death 
Woedswoeth,  William. 

Intimations  of  Immortality  .  . 

The  Reaper 

The  Lost  Love 


.  Yates,  John  B. 

The  Old  Ways  and  the  New 

The  Model  Church 

YotJL,  Eeward. 

Song  of  Spring  ...... 


469 
330 

543 

44 

79 

230 

317 

.^50 
402 
405 
416 
459 
488 
507 
560 
566 
582 
605 
654 

.^d9 

305 
437 
613 

549 

G75 

203 
368 
670 


104 
544 


fS 


FULL-PAGE    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


«0.  PAOK 

I.    FRONTISPIECE 4 

II.    "  THE  GROVES  WERE  GOD'S  FIRST  TEMPLES." 38 

III.  THE  GRASSHOPPER  KING 42 

IV.  SUMMER 68 

V.    DOMINION  OVER  THE  FISH  OF  THE  SEA 75 

VI.    MODERN  TIMES  IN  THE  GOLDEN  AUTUMN 104 

VII.     "  A  TYPE  OF  GRANDEUR.  STRENGTH  AND  MAJESTY." 181 

¥111.    DRIFTING.  . 210 

IX.    "  TO  HIM  WHO  IN  THE  LOVE  OF  NATURE." 214. 

27 


28  FULL-PAGE  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

KO.  PAGE. 

X.     NIGHT 242 

XL     "THUS  DEPARTED  HIAWATHA." 342 

XII.     "ON  THE  OUTSKIRTS  OF  THE  FOREST." 344 

XIII.  "THE  FIERCE,  FOAMING,  BURSTING  TIDE." 362 

XIV.  "  BLESSINGS  ON  THEE,  LITTLE  MAN:       416 

XV.    "I'M  GROWING  OLD." 438 

XVI.    "THE  BEAUTIFUL  SNOW." 443 

XVII.    PATIENCE. 450 

XVIII.    THE  CHEMIST 469 

XIX.     FLYING  FROM  THE  FIRE 472 

XX.     THE  CRAFTY  OLD  FOX 482 

XX I.     "ICE  BOUND  TREES  ARE  GLITTERING." 696 

X.XII.    GROTTO  OF  ANTIPAROS 636 

XXIIL     ARCTIC  LIFE 652 

XXIV.    GRANDPA  AND  HIS  PETS 656 

XXV     WIN'lER  JOYS. ^C8 


QUOTATION 


PAOI 


Vase ,   ,   .   .  {Ornament.) 

Royal  Necklace  , '•  

Poet  Laureate  .   .    • "  . 

An  Outlook "  

Entablature '"•  .......... 

Heraldic  Eagle "  .   .   .   . 

Sculpture " 

Commemorative  Vase "  

Aet  Emblems "  

Good  Luck "  

Repousse  Work "  

Cupid    . "'  

Tablet "  

The  Djinn "  

Studiousness "  

The  Old  Skipper "  Sitting  in  the  boat  at  work."  .    . 

Getting  Ready "  You  must  first  catch  them."  .  .   . 

The  Old  Clock "  Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands." 

The  Blood  Horse "  Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone."  . 

Cobbler  at  Work "  Keezar  sat  on  the  hill-side.''  .    . 

The  Falls "  Flashing  in  foam  and  spray.''  . 

The  Arched  Bridge "  Down  the  grand  old  river  Rhine." 

Poultry "Grand  were  the  strutting  turkeys." 


7 

8 

9 

10 

11 

14 

15 

18 

19 

26 

27 

28 

29 

34 

35 

39 

40 

41 

42 

44 

45 

46 

46 

The  Cobbler's  Joy "  Loud  laughed  the  cobbler  Keezar." 47 

49 
50 
51 
53 
55 


Thb  Dutch  Mill "  Which  the  Dutchfarmers  are  so  fond  of  . 

The  Cock "  Clapping  his  burtmhed  wings,  and  crowing." 

The  Bridge "  I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight  "  .    . 

Heart  of  the  Alps "  Oirt  round  with  rugged  mountains."  .... 

Winter  in  THE  Country "  The  untrodden  snoiv." 


Orr  fob  a  Sail "  The  ripples  lightly  tost  the  boat." dO 

29 


30  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


TITLE  QUOTATION.  PASS 

SsAVETAED <....=  "  Tve  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep."  .   .   .   ,  58 

Ancesteal  HoiiESTEAB  .    =   <....."  The  stately  homes  of  England." 69 

MoTHEE  AKD  Child  .  o    .        ....    ."  Look  where  our  children  start." 08 

The  Meadow  Road *'  This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive."  ....  71 

Baeeiees  of  the  Sea "A  wall  of  defence." 76 

Skippee  Ieesox's  Ride '\Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  m  a  cart.''   .  79 

Chaleue  Bat "  Looked  for  a  coming  that  might  not  be"  ...  80 

Baby  Deae '■' Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear  f".  .   .    .  82 

BoEiAL  Place ,    .   .'■' A  voice  from  the  tomb  sweeter  than  song."  .  .   .  88 

Embaekation  of  the  Exiles  .  .   .   .      "  Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats." 90 

Peesidest  Lincoln '' '  God  bless  you,  sir,'  said  Blossom."  .   .   ,   .   .  94 

Ruined  Cottage '  None  will  dwell  in  that  cottage." 97 

Vase  OF  Flowees   ,   .   .   o "  Learn  of  these  gentle  flowers." 98 

Jimmy  Butlee  dieected "  You've  no  time  to  lose."    ...» 101 

The  Attack "  /  saw  a  pair  of  big  eyes." 103 

The  Twins  ON  the  Teain "  ^fy  twins,  1  shall  ne'er  see  again." 108 

TwiNKLETON  ON  Teial "  You  deserted  your  infants.'' 108 

Stiver's  Hoese "  Sis  ears  back,  his  mouth  open." 113 

Stiver's  Hoese "He ej:ereised me." 114 

Stivee's  Hoese "  He  turned  about,  and  shot  for  the  gate."  .   .   .  116 

Charley o   .   .  ■'  Muzzer's  bought  a  baby." 120 

Charley  AND  THE  Baby "  Ain't  he  awful  ugly." 120 

Chaeley's  Cry '■' Nose  ain't  out  of  joy ent." 120 

Chaeley's  Hair  Pulled.   ....   .  "  Zink  I  ought  to  love  him .'" .   .   .  120 

Chahley  and  Biddy      "  Be  a  good  boy,  Charley." 121 

Chaeley's  Comfoet ''  Beat  him  on  ze  head." 121 

Mr.  Mann's  Haste "  Fly  around." 128 

Mr.  Mann's  Struggles "He  began  to  sweat."  . 127 

Me.  Mann's  Defeat.  .    , "  Glaring  at  the  departing  train." 129 

Roger  and  I "We  are  two  travelers." 130 

SuEGEEY "  Chock  up." 13? 

The  E.tPLANATioN "  He' s  that '  handsomer  than  than  you.' ".  .   .    .  141 

Pete  by  the'  Chimney ''  Toasting  ?ds  shins." 143 

Pete  in  Retreat '' No,  sa,  I  runs." 113 

Coral  Reef  .    .    .        ^' Who  build  in  the  tossing  and  treachcro^is  main."  147 

Nutting "  The  squirrel  is  not  more  nimble." 149 

Puzzled  Dutchman "  I'm  a  prokcn-Jtcartcd  DculscJier.'' 151 

Uan3  and  Yawcob "  I  doosn't  know  my  name." 152 

Pat  and  the  Doctor "Pat,  hoiuisthatforasignV' 155 

The  Quack "  Tlir  song  that  it  sings  is  '  Qiutck,  Quack. ''  .    .  156 

Lincoln's  Monument "  With  malice  towards  none;  with  charity  for  all."  1G2 

The  Little  CoNCiUEROR "  ^fy  arms  are  round  my  darling  thrown."  .       .  1G5 

Betty  and  the  Bear. ."  Smtrd  himself  on  the  hearth." 171 

Betty  AND  THE  Bear ."  Tlie  hear  was  no  more" 172 

The  Sea ......"  The  calm,  gently-heaving,  silent  sea.'' 1.76 

Oliffs  by  THE  S^.A "  What  r or ks  ami  cliffs  arc  SO  glorious  t"     .    .    .  173 

Cyclone "  Lt.  vamjuishrd  them  at  last." 185 

Papa's  Ip.avk "  Covrr  ivith  mscs  each  lowly  green  viournl."    .    .  192 

Mt  Childhood  Home "  A  Utile  low  hut  by  t)u  river's  side." 196 


ILLUSTRATIONS.  gj 


TITLE.  QUOTATION.  PAiJE. 

The  Water-Mill "  The  mill  will  never  grind  again."  ......  201 

OLr  Church- Yard "  Through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borru,"  203 

Anqlinq "■  The  gallant  fisher's  life,  it  is  the  best  of  any."  .  206 

Forest  Depths    .   .   c   , "  The  venerable  woods." 215 

The  Silent  River "  Tliou,  hast  taught  me,  Silent  River." 221 

The  Brook *'  I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hem"  ....  222 

Tower "  Sounds  of  low  wailing  from  the  tower."  .  .    .    .  226 

NoBiLiir "  Nobility  is  a  graceful  ornament." 228 

Two  Kittens "  The  two  little  kittens  had  nowhere  te  go."  .    .    .  229 

Whittier's  Birth-place "  A  picture  memory  brings  to  me." 230 

Dove-Cote ''  A  pretty  nursery." 233 

The  Old  Church "  I  stood  before  ...  alarge  church  door."    .    .    .  238 

Maidenhood "  Maiden  with  the  mceh  brown  eyes."    .....  24G 

The  Brook  Side ,   .           .  "  ! zccndered  by  the  mill" 247 

Cataract  of  LoDORE "  How  does  the  water  come  down  at  Lodoref".    .  248 

The  Fisher's  Cottage    ....       .    ."  We  sat  by  the  fisher's  cottag^"  .  .   .    .       ...  253 

Jolly  Old  Pedagogue "  Me  took  the  little  ones  upon  his  knee."    ....  25a 

Ships  on  the  Sea "  Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee." 263 

The  American  Boy "  Look  up,  my  boy." 263 

Rock  ME  to  Sleep "  Mother,  comeback  from  the  echoless  shore."  .   .  274 

Ruined  Church "  The  ruin  lone  and  hoary." 281 

Rural  Comfort "  In  rural  occupation  there  is  nothing  mean"  .   .  285 

Mother's  Chair "  A  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair."  ....  286 

The  Student "  Spend  not  your  time  in  that  which  profits  not."  292 

The  Country  Church "  The  steeplewas  the  only  thing  that  folks  couldsee."  294 

Der  Drummer "  Who  puts  oup  at  der  pest  hotel  f" 297 

The  Greeting "  How  you  vas  to-day." 297 

At  Business "Look,  and  see  how  nice.'' 29T 

Iv  Society "  Und  kiss  Eatrina  on  the  mouth." 297 

Indignation "  Und  mit  a  black  eye  goes  away" 293 

Gathering  Night •   •    .   .  "  When  all  around  is  peace." 302 

The  Forge "  Clang,  clang !  the  massive  anvils  ring."  .  .    .    .  304 

Tee  Church  Bell "  In  mellow  tones  rang  out  a  bell." 310 

Hans  AND  Fritz "  Two  Deutschers  who  lived  side  by  side."  .  .    .    .  311 

Dead  on  the  Field "  Till  death  united." 313 

Singing  Birds "  The  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings." 319 

Excelsior "  His  brotu  was  sad ;  his  eye  beneath,  flashed."    .  322 

Father  Time "  He  lives  forever,  and  his  name  is  Tijiie."    .    .    .  325 

Fruit  Piece "  The  dinner  now  makes  its  appearance."     .   .    .  329 

Little  Margery "  Dreaming  of  the  coming  years  " 330 

Learning  to  Pray "  Kneeling  fair  in  the  twilight  gray." 331 

Rats  AT  Work "  The  rats  a  nightly  visit  paid." 335 

Sleighing "'Tis  the  merry,  merry  sleigh." 339 

Hiawatha's  Home "I  will  bring  her  to  your  wigwam." 342 

The  Breaking  Sea "Break,  break,  break,  on  thy  cold  stones,  0  sea."  343 

Rabbit "  They  rustle  to  the  rabbit's  tread.'' 349 

Triumphal  Arch "Eomeivith  her  army." 351 

J'arm-yard "Into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes." 352 

MoEinifQ  • "  The  east  began  to  kindle." 356 


32  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


TITLE.  QUOTATION.  PA( 

The  TiGEE "  Burning  bright,  in  the  forest  of  the  night."  .    .  3; 

The  Minstek  Window "  The  minster  window,  richly  glowing."    .   .    .    .  3£. 

Ship  AT  Sea "  I  was  bom  on  the  open  sea." 362 

Cave  BY  the  Sea "  Seek  me  the  cave  of  Silver." 363 

Sickle  and  Sheaf "She  cuts  and  binds  the  grain.'' 368 

The  Lover's  By-way "  We  left  the  old  folks  have  the  highway."    .    .    .  369 

BiBDS "  Notes  from  the  lark  Til  borrow." 374 

King  of  Denmark's  Ride "  The  king  rode  first." 380 

MiEAGE "  Bare  as  the  surface  of  the  desert." 386 

Sands  o'  Dee "  Never  home  came  she." 392 

Annie  AND  Willie "  Well,  why  ' tant  we  pray  f" 396 

The  Elephant "  Who  went  to  see  the  Elephant." 398 

The  Glen "  Far  down  a  narrow  glen." 40i 

The  Bcening  Steamee "A  noble  funeral  pyre." 40'? 

Buried  in  Snow "  All  day  had  the  snow  come  down." 409 

Feozen  to  Death "  Cold  and  Dead" 410 

Sea-Shore "  The  sea  remembers  nothing.     It  is  feline."    .    .  415 

Leedle  Yawcob "  I  dinks  mine  hed  vas  schplit  abart." 419 

The  Owl "  The  king  of  the  night  is  the  bold  brown  owl."  .  423 

Alpine  Peaks "  The  far  more  glorious  ridges." 428 

The  Old  Man "  Sat  a  hoary  pilgrim  sadly  musing." 431 

Appeoach  to  Aenheim "  Tlie  channel  now  became  a  gorge." 434 

Stoemy  Petrels "  The  stormy  petrel  finds  a  home." 439 

Little  and  Great "  Mighty  at  the  last." 442 

Pelicans "  I7iat  lonely  couple  on  their  isle." 447 

Mother  AND  Babe "  Love  is  a  legal  tender." 452 

Maud  Muller "  Simple  beauty  and  rustic  health." 459 

The  Lark "  The  merry,  merry  lark  wets  up  and  singing."    .  463 

Innovations  OF  the  White  Man.  .    ."  The  red  man  is  thy  foe." 465 

Star  of  Bethlehem "  One  alone  a  Saviour  speaks." 469 

The  Birds'  Home "  Wfien  sparrows  build." 471 

Interior  of  Westminster  Abbey    .    .  "  These  lofty  vaults." 475 

Terrace- Lawn "  Every  slanting  terrace-lawn" 480 

Meeting  of  the  Waters "  The  bright  waters  meet." 484 

The  River  Valley "  You  see  the  dull  plain  fall." 488 

The  Barn "  Tlie  old  swallow  haunted  bams." 489 

The  Granary "  I-'<^y  f-he  heaped  ears." 490 

Mabel  Martin "  Mahcl  Martin  sat  apart." 490 

The  Horsehhok  Charm "  To  guard  against  her  mother's  harm."  ....  491 

Mahkl  in  fjRlEK "  Small  leisure  have  the  poor  " 492 

The  Champio.n "  I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest." 492 

The  Streaming  Lioht.s "  Tlie  harvest  lights  of  Harden  shone" 493 

The  Betrothal "  Iler  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of  joy." 494 

God's  Acre "  77tc  burial  ground  Ood's  acre." 498 

The  Comet "  Save  when  a  blazing  comet  was  seen."    ....  505 

News  FROM  the  Forkht "  Straggling  rangers  ...  homcwanl faring"    .    .  508 

Call  to  tuk  Boat "  To  the  bmrh  we  all  are  going" 509 

In  the  Foiieht "Some  reil  sfjuaw  his  moose  meat's  broiling."  .    .  509 

The  Return "'Robert  I'  'Martha  I'"  all  they  say."  .    .    .    .  610 


ILLUSTRATIONS.  33 


TITLE.  QUOTATION.  PAGE. 

cJmiley's  Fboq "He  was  planted  as  solid  as  an  anvil." 512 

The  Light  House "  The  Light-house  fire  blazed." 513 

The  River  Shore "  I  hear  the  keel  grating  " 518 

Steam-train "  Down  came  the  night  express." 519 

Old-time  Fire-place "  A  fire  in  the  kitchen." 520 

Mother's  Bible "My  Mothers  hands  this  Bible  clasped."     .    .    .  523 

Plymouth  Rock "  The  ice-clad  rocks  of  Plymouth" 524 

The  Swan "  Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink  f" 527 

Battle  Monument "  The  Battle  Monument  at  Baltimore." 531 

Sheridan's  Ride "  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day." 536 

Ancient  Stronghold "  Stone  walls  and  bulwarks." 540 

The  Old  Man "  The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree." 542 

The  Stream "  She  found  a  Lotus  by  the  stream." 547 

Scene  of  my  Childhood "  The  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well."  .  .   .  549 

Lord  Ullin "  Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore  "    .    .    .    .  552 

Birds  at  Home "  By  every  light  wind  .  .  .  swung  ." 557 

By  The   Fireside "  Right  and  left  sat  dame  and  goodman"  .    .    .  561 

The  Surprise "  What  is  this  f" 562 

The  Forest  Grave "On  her  wooden  cross  at  Simcoe." 563 

The    River "No  ripple  from  the  water  s  hem.'' 566 

The  Lamb "  Mary  haf  got  one  little  lambs  already."  .    .    .  567 

Battle  of  Lookout  Mountain  .  .   .   ."  Fortified  Lookout." 570 

Porpoise "  Tumbling  about  the  bow  of  the  ship."  ....  574 

The  Dead  Soldier "  The  wounded  to  die." 578 

The  Playmates "  The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  field."  ....  582 

The  Tempest "  The  lightning  flashing  free." 587 

Ballooning "  The  balloon  was  cast  off." 591 

The  Mountain  Torrent "  The  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill.'' 595 

The  Surf "  I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore." 601 

Mount  Vernon "  Washington's  modest  home.'' 604 

Draw-bridge "  The  dark  tunnel  of  the  bridge." 605 

Hay-boat "  The  heavy  hay-boats  crawl." 605 

The  Abutment "  The  gray  abutment's  luall." 606 

The  Evening  Walk "  The  walk  on  pleasant  Newbury's  shore."  .  .    .  607 

Calmness ..."  Calmness  sits  throned  on  yon  unmoving  cloud."  610 

The  Cathedral  Tower "  Proud  Cathedral  towers." 615 

The  Shore "  Never  the  ocean  wave  falters  in  flowing."  .    .    .  619 

Harvesting "  Lo,  the  husbandman  reaping." 620 

Work  in  the  Meadows "  With  meadows  wide.''  .    .    • 625 

Iceberg "  It  then  floated  on  the  sea,  an  iceberg."    ....  627 

Home ."  My  lowly  thatched  cottage." 628 

Castle  and  Lawn "  My  lands  so  broad  and  fair." 631 

The  Ravens "  Child  and  flowers  both  were  dead." 639 

Trout "  I  have  killed  many  flsh.'' 643 

Cooking  the  Fish "  Men  have  their  hours  of  eating  " 644 

The  Rocky  Shore "  Not  of  the  watery  home  thou  tellest." 645 

Fingal's  Cave "  The  cave  of  music.'' 649 

Ecclesiastical  Emblems "  The  cohort  of  the  fathers." 652 

Salt  Meadows "  The  sweetness  of  the  hay  "    .   .    • 654 


34 


1LLUSTRATI0:S'S. 


TITLE.  QUOTATION.  PAGE. 

At  the  Ferrv "  He  set  his  horse  to  the  river/' 655 

Day  Dawn "  Aicake!  it  in  the  day.'' 661 

Valley  of  Chamounix    .     .     .   '' Green  vales  a)id  icy  cliffs.'' 664 

The   Cutter "  Sjiring  to  their  cutters."  .     .......  667 

Rustic  Games "  Its  rough  accompaniment  of  blind  man'sbuff."  QQl 

Snow  Balling "  The  snowballs  compliments." 668 

The  Poet "  Forth  into  the  nigl it  he  hurled  it."    ....  669 

The  Maiden "  Tracing  icords  vpon  the  sand." 669 

The  Rose "  Full  of  bliss  .she  takes  the  token."      .     .     .     .670 

Blessedness "  Kiss  his  moonlit  forehead.'' 670 

Grandmother's  Spectacles    .  "She  woidd  often  let  her  glasses  slip  down."     .  676 
Beauties  of  the  Deep  .     .     .  "  Dee})  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove.'  ....  678 

Work  in  the  Field   ....  "  And  so  ive  worked  together." 680 

The  Steamship "  The  great  hull  swayed  to  the  current."  .     .     .  683 

The  Bald-IIeadei)  Tyrant    .  "  He  rides  them  all  icith  relentless  hand."    .     .  687 

Mountaineer's  Warfare    .     .  "  A  nnirderous  rain  of  rocks." 691 

The  Gateway "  The  chamber  over  the  gate." 693 

Surges  AND   Shore     ....  "  These  restless  surges  eat  atvay  the  shores."      .  694 

Greece "  In  Poestnm's  ancient  fanes  I  trod."       .     .     .  696 

The   Old   House "  Bid  the  old  house  good-bye." 698 

Country  Rambles "  Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  ihru.shes  do."  700 

The  Holy  Land "  Pavement  for  his  footstep." 702 

Shooting  Porpoises    ....  "  Tickling  them  tvith  shot." 705 

The  Akar's  Tent  .     .     .    -    .  "  Shall  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs."    .     .     .  707 
T^E  Scribe      - (Ornament.) -    ...  708 


SYLVAN  IIAPriXESS. 


Tf  ERFEGT  H^EARLS 


OF 


POETRY  AND  PROSE. 


FOREST  HYMN. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


3HE  groves  were  God's  first  temples, 
K^  ere  man  learned 

To    hew    the    shaft,    and    lay    the 

architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — 

ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll 
back 
The  sound  of  anthems  ;  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 
Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in 

heaven 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the 

sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green   tops,  stole   over  him,   and 

bowed 
His  spirit  with    the    thought   of  boundless 

power 
And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 
Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our  frail  hands  have  raised?     Let  me, 
aX  least. 


Here,  in  the  shadow  ol  this  aged  wood, 
Offer  one  hymn, — thrico  happy  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  His  ear. 

Father,  Thy  hand 
Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns.    Thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst 

look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and  forthwith  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They  in  Thy 

sun 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  Thy 

breeze, 
And   shot   towards   heaven.     The   century- 
living  crow. 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  graw  old  and 

died 
Among  their  branches,  till  at  last  they  stood. 
As  now  they  stand,  massy  and  tall  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion    with    his   Maker.     These   dim 

vaults. 
These  winding   aisles,   of  human   pomp   or 

pride, 
Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  Thy  fair  works.     But  Thou  art  here,— 

Thou  fill'st 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  wind* 

37 


38 


A  FOREST  HYMN. 


That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music ;  Thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath 
That  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place 
Comes,  scarcely  felt ;  the  barky  trunks,  the 

ground, 
The  fresh,  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with 

Thee: 
Here  is  continual  worship  ; — nature,  here, 
In  the  tranquility  that  Thou  dost  love. 
Enjoys  Thy  presence.     Noiselessly  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 
Passes ;  and  yon  clear  spring  that,  midst  its 

herbs. 
Wells  softly  forth,  and,  wandering,  steeps  the 

roots 
Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 
Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 
Of  Thy  perfection.     Grandeur,  strength,  and 

grace 
Are   here  to   speak  of  Thee.     This  mighty 

oak, — 
By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 
Almost  annihilated, — not  a  prince. 
In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep. 
E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 
Wears   the    green  coronal   of    leaves   with 

which 
Thy  hand  hath  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his 

root 
Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  tlie  glare 
Of    the    broad    sun.     That    delicate    forest 

flower, 
With    scented   breath,   and   look    so  like  a 

smile. 
Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 
An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  u[iholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awd  within  m<:  whr-n  I  think 
Of  the  great  mira'le  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me, — the  perpotual  work 
Of  Thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Writt'^u  on  Thy  works,  I  read 
The  loHflon  of  Thy  own  eternity. 
Lo !  all  grow  old  and  die  ;  but  Bee  again. 
How  on  the  faltering  foptwtcns  of  decay 
Youth     presses, — ever    gay    and     beautiful 
youth, 


In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  treea 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder    beneath   them.      0,   there   is   not 

lost 
One  of  Earth's  charms !     Upon  her  bosom 

yet. 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries. 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies. 
And   yet    shall    lie.      Life   mocks   the    idle 

ba^e 
Of  his  arch-enemy, — Death,- —/':ji,,  '.eats  him- 
self 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne,  the  sepulchre. 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came 

forth 
From  Thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no 
end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  them- 
selves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they 

outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them; — and  there  have  been   holy 

men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  Thy  presence,  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies. 
The    passions,    at    Thy    plainer    footsteps 

shrink. 
And  tremble,  and   are  still.     0  God !  when 

Thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with   tempest.^,  set  on 

fire 
The  heavens  with    falling  thunderbolts,  or 

fill, 
Witli  all  the  waters  of  tho  firmament, 
Tiie  swift  dark  whirlwind  that   uproots  the 

woodb 
And  drowns  the  villages  ;  when,  at  Thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep,  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities, — who  forgets  not,  at  tho  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  Thy  jiowir. 
His   prides,  and   lay   his  strifos  aad   follio3 

by? 


•'The  groves  were  God's  tirst  Trrnj '.■  .■-." 


AIORALITY  OF  ANGLING. 


39 


0,  from  Chese  sterner  aspects  of  Thy  face 
Spare   me    and   mine,  nor  let  us   need    the 

wrath 
Of  the  mad,  \inchained  elements,  to  teach 


Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate 
In  these  calm  shades,  Thy  milder  majesty. 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  Thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


MORALITY  OF  ANGLING. 


WILLIAM    C.    PRIME. 


jUT  how  about  killing  fish  for  sport?  lu  the  name  of  sense,  man,  if 
God  made  fish  to  be  eaten,  what  diflference  does  it  make  if  I  enjoy 
the  killing  of  them  before  I  eat  them  ?  You  would  have  none  but 
a  fisherman  by  trade  do  it,  and  then  you  v/ould  have  him  utter  a 
sio-h,  a  prayer,  and  a  pious  ejaculation  at  each  cod  or  haddock  that 
he  killed ;  and  if  by  chance  the  old  fellow,  sitting  in  the  boat  at 

work,  should  for  a  moment  think  there  was,  after  all,  a  little  fun  and  a 

little     pleasure    in    his 


business,  you  v/ould  have 
him  take  a  round  turn 
with  his  line,  and  drop 
on  his  knees  to  ask  for- 
giveness for  the  sin  of 
thinking  there  was  sport 
in  fishing. 

I  can  imagine  the  sad- 
faced  melancholy-eyed 
man,  who  makes  it  his 
business  to  supply  game 
for  the  market  as  you 
would  have  him,  sober 
as  the  sexton  in  Hamlet, 
and  forever  moralizing 
over  the  gloomy  neces- 
sity that  has  doomed 
him  to  a  life  of  murder  ? 
Why,  good  sir,  he  would 
frighten  respectable  fish,  and  the  market  would  soon  be  destitute. 

The  keenest  day's  sport  in  my  journal  of  a  great  many  years  of  sport 
was  when,  in  company  with  some  other  gentlemen,  I  took  three  hundred 
blue-fish  in  three  hours'  fishing  off  Block  Island,  and  those  fish  were  eaten 


40 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 


the  same  night  or  the  next  morning  in  Stonington,  and  supplied  from  fifty 
to  one  hundred  different  tables,  as  we  threw  them  up  on  the  dock  for  any 
one  to  help  himself.  I  am  unable  to  perceive  that  I  committed  any  sin  in 
taking  them,  or  any  sin  in  the  excitement  and  pleasure  of  taking  them. 

It  is  time  moralists  had  done  with  this  mistaken  morality.     If  you 
eschew  animal  food  entirely,  then  you  may  argue  against  killing  animals, 

and  I  will  not  argue  with  you.  But 
the  logic  of  this  business  is  simply 
this  :  The  Creator  made  fish  and  flesh 
for  the  food  of  man,  and  as  we  can't 
eat  them  alive,  or  if  we  do,  we  can't 
digest  them  alive,  the  result  is  we 
must  kill  them  first,  and  (see  the  old 
rule  of  cooking  a  dolphin)  it  is  some- 
times a  further  necessity,  since  they 
won't  come  to  be  killed  when  we  call 
them,  that  we  must  first  catch  them. 
Show  first,  then,  that  it  is  a  painful 
necessity,  a  necessity  to  be  avoided  if 
possible,  which  a  good  man  must 
shrink  from  and  abhor,  unless  starved 
into  it,  to  take  fish  or  birds,  and 
which  he  must  do  when  he  does  it 
with  regret,  and  with  sobriety  and 
seriousness,  as  he  would  whip  his 
child,  or  shave  himself  when  his  beard  is  three  days  old,  and  you  havo 
your  case.  But  till  you  show  this,  I  will  continue  to  think  it  great  sport 
to  supply  my  market  with  fish. 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 


H.    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


MEWTTAT    back   from   the   village 

street 
Stands  the  old -fashioned  country  Hcat; 
Across  ittt  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar  trees  their  shadows  throw  ; 
And,  from  its  station  in  the  hall, 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all, 

"  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !" 


Half  way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  bockons  with  its  handa, 
From  its  case  of  niassivo  oak, 
Like  a  monk  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  1 
With  sorrowful  voiio  to  all  who  pasi^ 

"  Forever — never  I 

Never — forever  I" 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 


^1 


By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 
Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 
Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
And  seems  to  say  at  each  chamber  door, 

"  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !" 

Through  days  of  s:rrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of 

birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitu(]e 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has 

stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  a\j;e, 

"  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !" 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared  ; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board  ; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast. 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased, 

"  Forever — never ! 

Never — forever  !" 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played; 
There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming 

strayed  ; 
Oh,  precious  hours  !   oh,  golden  prime 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time ! 
Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 
Those  hours   the   ancient  timepiece 

told,— 

"  Forever — never  ! 
Never — forever !" 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The   bride   came   forth   on   her   wedding 

night ; 
There,  in  that  silent  robm  below, 
The  dead  lay,  in  his  shroud  of  snow  ; 
And,    in    the    hush    that   followed    the 

prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair, — 

"  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !" 


All  are  scattered,  now,  and  fled, — 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead  : 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"  Ah  !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  f 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply, 

"  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !" 


Never  here,  forever  there,  * 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care 
And    death,    and    time    shall    disap 

pear, — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here! 
The  horologue  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly, 

"  Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever !" 


42 


THE  BLOOD  HORSE. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER  KING. 


FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  ANACREON,  B.  C,  660. 


^APPY  insect,  svhat  can  be 
^^;4i     -^^  happiness  compared  to  thee? 
^«y,S^    Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 


\ 


The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine  ! 

iSature  waits  upon  thee  still, 
And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill ; 
'Tis  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 
Nature's  self  thy  Ganymede. 


Thou  dost  drink  and  dance  and  sing. 
Happier  than  the  happiest  king! 
All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 
All  the  plants  belong  to  thee ; 
All  the  summer  hours  produce. 
Fertile  made  with  early  juice, 
Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plough. 
Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou  1 


THE  BLOOD  HORSE. 


BARRY     CORNWALL. 


S^KAMAKRA  is  a  dainty  steed, 
gJ^K    Strong,  black,  and  of  noble  breed, 
^fi:'\\j   Full  of  fire,  au'l  full  of  bono, 

With  all  Ills  linf!  of  fatherw  known  ; 
Fini^hifl  nose,  his  nostrils  thin. 
But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within 
His  man*!  is  like  a  river  flowing. 
And  bis  eyes  like  embers  glowing 
In  the  darkne.sfl  of  the  night, 
And  bis  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

I(0ok, — liow  round  liis  straining  throat 
Grace  and  shifting  beauty  float ; 
Sinewy  strength  \a  in  his  reins. 


I  And  the  red  blood  gallops  through  his  veini. 
Richer,  redder,  never  ran 
Through  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 
I  He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 
j  Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire, — 
!  ]  Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  fJuelph, 
Or  O'Brien's  blood  itself! 


He,  who  hath  no  peer,  was  born 
Hfrc,  upon  a  red  March  morn  ; 
But  his  famous  fathers  dead 
Wire  Arabs  all,  and  Arab  bred, 
And  tlie  last  of  that  great  lino 
Trod  likt?  oin'  of  a  race  divine  I 


THE  FRONT  AND  SIDE  DOORS.  43 


And  yet, — ^b«  was  but  friend  to  one, 
Who  fed  him  at  tha  aet  of  sun 
By  some  lone  fountain  fringed  with  green  ; 
With  him,  a  roving  Bedoui« 


lie  lived  (none  else  would  he  obey 
Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day), 
And  died  untamed  upon  the  sanda 
Where  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stAods  I 


TEE  FRONT  AND  SIDE  DOORS. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 


I  VERY  person's  feelings  have  a  front-door  and  side-door  by  which 

they  may  be  entered.     The  front-door  is  on  the  street.     Some  keep 

it  always  open ;  some  keep  it  latched ;  some,  locked ;  some,  bolted, 

— with  a  chain  that  will  let  you  peep  in,  but  not  get  in ;  and  some 

1        nail  it  up,  so  that  nothing  can  pass  its  threshold.     This  front-door 

•         leads  into  a  passage  which  opens  into  an  ante-room,  and  this  into 

the  interior  apartments.      The  side-door  opens  at  once  into  the  sacred 

chambers. 

There  is  almost  always  at  least  one  key  to  this  side-door.  This  is 
carried  for  years  hidden  in  a  mother's  bosom.  Fathers,  brothers,  sisters, 
and  friends,  often,  but  by  no  means  so  universally,  have  duplicates  of  it. 
The  wedding-ring  conveys  a  right  to  one ;  alas,  if  none  is  given  with  it ! 

Be-  very  careful  to  whom  you  trust  one  of  these  keys  of  the  side-door. 
The  fact  of  possessing  one  renders  those  even  who  are  dear  to  you  very 
terrible  at  times.  You  can  keep  the  world  out  from  your  front-door,  or 
receive  visitors  only  when  you  are  ready  for  them ;  but  those  of  your  own 
flesh  and  blood,  or  of  certain  grades  of  intimacy,  can  come  in  at  the  side- 
door,  if  they  will,  at  any  hour  and  in  any  mood.  Some  of  them  have  a 
scale  of  your  whole  nervous  system,  and  can  play  all  the  gamut  of  your 
sensibilities  in  semitones, — touching  the  naked  nerve-pulps  as  a  pianist 
strikes  the  keys  of  his  instrument.  I  am  satisfied  that  there  are  as  great 
masters  of  this  nerve-playing  as  Vieuxtemps  or  Thalberg  in  their  lines  of 
performance.  Married  life  is  the  school  in  which  the  most  accomplished 
artists  in  this  department  are  found.  A  delicate  woman  is  the  best  instru- 
ment ;  she  has  such  a  magnificent  compass  of  sensibilities !  From  the  deep 
inward  moan  which  follows  pressure  on  the  great  nerves  of  right,  to  the 
sharp  cry  as  the  filaments  of  the  taste  are  struck  with  a  crushing  sweep,  is 
a  range  which  no  other  instrument  possesses.  A  few  exercises  on  it  daily 
at  home  fit  a  man  wonderfully  for  his  habitual  labors,  and  refresh  him  im- 
mensely a3  he  returns  from  them.     No  stranger  can  get  a  great  many  notes 


44 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION. 


of  torture  out  of  a  human  soul ;  it  takes  one  that  knows  it  well, — parent, 
child,  brother,  sister,  intimate.  Be  very  careful  to  whom  you  give  a  side- 
door  key;  too  many  have  them  already. 


COBBLER  KEEZARS  VISION. 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


^FIE  beaver  cut  his  tirnl>f;r 

With  patient  teeth  that  day, 
The  mink)?  were  fish-wards,  and  the 
crowH 
Surveyors  o*"  highway, — 


When  Keezar  sat  on  the  liillaide 

Upon  his  cobbler's  form, 
With  a  pan  of  coals  on  either  han'l 

To  keep  his  waxcd-cnds  warm. 

And  there,  in  the  golden  weather. 
He  stitched  and  hammered  and  sung; 


In  the  brook  he  moistened  his  leather, 
In  tlie  pewter  mug  his  tongue. 

Well  knew  the  tough  old  Teuton 
Wlio  bn;W(;d  the  stoutest  ale. 

And  Ik'  paid  the  goodwifc's  reekoniagi 
In  the  coin  of  song  and  talc. 

The  songs  they  still  are  sin^^ing 
Who  dress  the  hills  of  vine 

The  tales  that  haunt  the  Hrocken, 
And  whisper  down  the  Rhine. 


YOUNG   GIRLS    IN    Ra\  INL   NEAR   CAl'RI. 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION. 


45 


Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 
The  swift  stream  wound  away, 

Through  birches  and  scarlet  rnaples, 
Flashing  in  foam  and  spray, — 


"  Why  should  folks  be  glum,"  said  Keezar, 

When  Nature  herself  is  glad, 
And  the  painted  woods  are  laughing 

At  the  faces  so  sour  and  sad  ?" 


Down  on  the  sharp-horned  ledges, 

Plunging  iu  steep  cascade, 
Tossing  its  white-maned  waters 

Against  the  hemlock's  shade. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 
East  and  westt  and  north  and  south ; 

Only  the  village  of  fishers 
Down  at  the  river's  mouth ; 

Only  here  and  there  a  clearing, 
With  its  farm-house  rude  and  new, 

And  tree-stumps,  swart  as  Indians, 
Where  the  scanty  harvest  grew. 

No  shout  of  home-bound  reapers. 

No  vintage-song  he  heard. 
And  on  the  green  no  dancing  feet 

The  m-3rry  violin  stirred. 


Small  heed  had  the  careless  cobbler 
What  sorrow  of  heart  was  theirs 

Who  travailed  in  pain  with  the  births  of  (Jo^ 
And  planted  a  state  with  prayers, — 

Hunting  of  witches  and  warlocks. 

Smiting  the  heathen  horde, — 
One  hand  on  the  mason's  trowel. 

And  one  on  the  soldier's  sword ! 

But  give  him  his  ale  and  cider, 

Give  him  his  pipe  and  song. 
Little  he  cared  for  Cliurch  or  State, 

Or  the  balance  of  right  and  wrong. 

"  Tis  work,  work,  work,"  he  muttered,— 
And  for  rest  a  snuffle  of  psalms  1" 

lie  smote  on  his  Icathc-rn  apron 
With  his  brown  and  waxen  pulma. 


i6 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION. 


"  0  for  the  purple  harvests 

Of  the  days  when  I  was  young ! 

For  the  merry  grape-stained  maidens, 
And  the  pleasant  songs  they  sung ! 


•  0  for  the  breath  of  vineyards, 
Of  apples  and  nuts  and  wine! 

For  an  oar  to  row  and  a  breeze  to  blow 
Down  the  grand  old  river  Rhine  1" 

A  tear  in  his  blue  eye  glistened, 
And  dropped  on  his  beard  so  gray. 

"  Old,  old  am  I,"  said  Keezar, 
"  And  the  Rhine  flows  far  away  !" 

But  a  cunning  man  was  the  cobbler  ; 

He  could  call  the  birds  from  the  trees. 
Charm  the  black  snake  out  of  the  ledges, 

And  bring  back  the  swarming  bees. 

All  the  virtues  of  herbs  and  motals, 
All  the  lore  of  the  woods,  he  knew, 

And  the  arts  of  the  Old  World  mingled 
With  the  marvels  of  the  New. 

Well  he  knew  the  tricks  of  magic, 
And  the  lapstone  on  his  knee 

Had  the  gift  of  the  Mormon's  goggles. 
Or  the  stone  of  Doctor  Dee. 

For  the  Tn\{!}ity  master,  Agrippa, 
Wrou^;ht  it  with  spell  and  rhyme 

From  a  fragment  of  mystic  moonstone 
In  the  lower  of  Neltesheim. 

To  a  cobbler,  Minnesinger, 

The  marvelous  nUrnf  gave  he, — 

And  ho  gave  it,  in  turn,  to  Keezar, 
Who  brought  it  over  the  sea. 


He  held  up  that  mystic  lapstone. 

He  held  it  up  like  a  lens. 
And  he  counted  the  long  years  coming 

By  twenties  and  by  tens. 

"  One  hundred  years,"  quoth  Keezar, 

"  And  fifty  have  I  told : 
Now  open  the  new  before  me. 

And  shut  me  out  the  old  !" 

Like  a  cloud  of  mist,  the  blackness 

Rolled  from  the  magic  stone, 
And  a  marvelous  picture  mingled, 

The  unknown  and  the  known. 

Still  ran  the  stream  to  the  river. 

And  river  and  ocean  joined  ; 
And  there  were  the  bluffs  and  the  blue  sea-line, 

And  cold  north  hills  behind. 

But  the  mighty  forest  was  broken, 

By  many  a  steepled  town, 
By  many  a  white-walled  ftxrm-house, 

And  many  a  garner  brown. 

Turning  a  score  of  mill-wheels, 

The  stream  no  more  ran  free ; 
White  sails  on  the  winding  river, 

White  sails  on  the  far-off  sea. 

Below  in  the  noisy  village 

The  flags  were  floating  gay. 
And  shone  on  a  thousand  faces 

The  light  of  a  holiday. 

Swiftly  the  rival  ploughmen 

Turned  the  brown  earth  from  theit  sliarwis; 
Here  were  the  farmer's  treasures. 

There  were  the  craftsman's  wares. 

Golden  the  goodwife's  butter. 
Ruby  the  currant-wine; 


Grand  wore  the  strutting  turko}'!, 
.  Fat  were  the  beeves  and  swinot. 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION. 


4: 


yellow  and  red  were  the  apples, 
And  the  ripe  pears  russet-brown, 

And  the  peaches  had  stolen  blushes 
From  the  girls  who  shook  them  down. 

And  with  blooms  of  hill  and  wild-wood, 

That  shame  the  toil  of  art. 
Mingled  the  gorgeous  blossoms 

Of  the  garden's  tropic  heart. 

"  What  is  it  I  see  ?"  said  Keezar, 

"  Am  I  here,  or  am  I  there  ? 
Is  it  a  fete  at  Bingen  ? 

Do  I  look  on  Frankfort  fair  ? 


"  Here's  a  priest,  and  there  is  a  Quaker, — 

Do  the  cat  and  dog  agree  ? 
Have  they  burned  the  stocks  for  oven-wood' 

Have  they  cut  down  the  gallows-tree? 

"  Would  the  old  folk  know  their  children  7 
Would  they  own  the  graceless  town, 

With  never  a  ranter  to  worry, 
And  never  a  witch  to  drown  ?" 

Loud  laughed  the  cobbler  Keezar, 
Laughed  like  a  school-boy  gay ; 

Tossing  his  arms  above  him. 
The  lapstone  rolled  away. 


'  But  where  are  the  clowns  and  puppets. 
And  imps  with  horns  and  tail  ? 

And  where  are  the  Rhenish  flagons? 
And  where  is  the  foaming  ale  ? 

"Strange  things  I  know  will  happen, — 
Strange  things  the  Lord  permit?; 

But  that  droughty  folks  should  be  jolly 
Puzzles  my  poor  old  wits. 

''  Here  are  smiling  manly  faces. 

And  the  maiden's  step  is  gay, 
Nor  sad  by  thinking,  nor  mad  by  drinking, 

Nor  nopes,  nor  fools,  are  they. 

"  Here's  pleasure  without  regretting, 

And  good  without  abuse, 
The  holiday  and  bridal 

Of  beauty  and  of  use. 


It  rolled  down  the  rugged  hillside, 
It  spun  like  a  wheel  bewitched. 

It  plunged  through  the  leaning  willowi, 
And  into  the  river  pitched. 

There  in  the  deep,  dark  water, 

The  magic  stone  lies  still. 
Under  the  leaning  willows 

In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 

But  oft  the  idle  fisher 

Sits  on  the  shadowy  bank, 
And  his  dreams  make  marvelous  pictuMi 

Where  the  wizard's  lapstone  sank 

And  still,  in  the  summer  twilights. 
When  the  river  seems  to  run 

Out  from  tlie  inner  glory, 
Warm  with  the  melted  sun, 


48 


GATHERED  GOLD  DUST. 


The  weary  mill-girl  lingers 
Beside  the  charmed  stream, 

And  the  sky  and  the  golden  water 
Shape  and  color  her  dream. 


Fair  wave  the  sunset  gardens, 

The  rosy  signals  fly  ; 
Her  homestead  beckons  from  the  cloud. 

And  love  goes  sailing  by '. 


GATHERED  GOLD  DUST. 


^^^RITICS  are  sentinels  in  the  grand  army 
01  letters,  stationed  at  the  corners 
of  newspapers  and  reviews,  to 
challenge  every  new  author. 

i^Long fellow. 
We  can  refute  assertions,  but  who  can 
refute  silence.  {Dickens. 

Buy  what  thou  hast  no  need  of,  and  ere 
long  thou  shalt  sell  thy  necessaries. 
{Franklin. 
The  great  secret  of  success  in  life  is,  for  a 
man  to  be  ready  when  his  opportunity 
comes.  {Disraeli. 

The  truly  illustrious  are  they  who  do  not 
court  the  praise  of  the  world,  but  per- 
form the  actions  which  deserve  it. 

{Tilton. 

Christ  awakened  the  world's  thought,  and  it 

has  never  slept  since.  {Howard. 

The  Cross  is  the  prism  that  reveals  to  us  the 

beauties  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness. 

{Goulbur7i. 

Men  have  feeling  ;  this  is  perhaps  the  best 

way  of  considering  them.  {Richter. 

Fidelity   is  seventh-tenths   of  business   suc- 

res.'f.  {Parton. 

In  the  march  ot  life  don't  lifod  tlio  order  of 

"right  about"  when  you  know  yon  are 

about  right.  {Holmes. 

He  that  lacks  time  to  mourn  lacks  time  to 

mend : 
Eternity  mourns  that.     'Tis  an  ill  cure 
For  life's  worst  ills,  to  have  no  time  to  feci 
Ihom.  {Shakespeare. 

The  worst  kind  of  vico  is  advice.    {Coleridge. 
A  self-o'i.'fpicion  of  hypocrisy  in  a  good  evi- 
dcrico  of  sincority.  {Hannah  More. 

A.  page  digested  is  bettor  than  a  volume  hur- 
riedly read.  {Macaulay. 


1  am  not  one  of  those  who  do  not  belie?*  A 
love  at  first  sight,  but  I  believe  in  mak- 
ing a  second  look.  {Henry  Vvntent. 

A  man  is  responsible  for  how  he  uses  his 
common  sense  as  well  as  his  rrv/Kil  sense. 

(Beecher. 

When  a  man  has  no  design  bat  to  speak 
plain  truth,  he  isn't  apt  to  be  talkative. 

{Prentict, 

The  year  passes  quick,  though  the  hour  tarry, 
and  time  bygone  is  a  dream,  tliough  we 
thought  it  never  would  go  while  it  was 
going.  {Newman. 

Good  temper,  like  a  sunny  day,  sheds  a 
brightness  over  everything.  It  is  the 
sweetener  of  toil  and  the  soother  of  dis- 
quietude. {Irving. 

A  profound  conviction  raises  a  man  above 
the  feeling  of  ridicule.  {Ifdl. 

Our  moods  are  lenses  coloring  the  world 
with  as  many  different  hue.>^.     {Emerson. 

Men  believe  that  their  reason  governs  their 
words,  but  it  often  happens  that  words 
have  power  to  react  on  reason.   {Bacon, 

Minds  of  moderate  calibre  ordinarily  con- 
demn everything  which  is  beyond  their 
range.  {La  Rochefoucaxdt. 

Geology  gives  ua  a  koj'  to  tlio  pationce  of 
God.  {Holland 

Do  to-day  thy  nearest  duty.  {Goctht 

Many  of  our  cares  are  bat  a  morbid  way  ol 
looking  at  our  privileges. 

{Walter  Scott. 

The  greatness  of  melancholy  men  is  seldom 
strong  and  healthy.  {Bidwer. 

Cowarilice  nsks,  Is  it  safe  ?  Expediency  asks, 
Is  it  politic?  Vanity  anks,  Is  it  popu- 
lar ?  but  CoQscicDco  asks,  Ik  it  right? 

{Punahon, 


BALTUS  VAN  TASSEL'S  FARM. 


49 


God  made  the  country  and  man  made  the 
town.  {Coiuper. 

Sorrows  humanize  our  race.  Tears  are  the 
showers  that  fertilize  the  world.  (Ingelow. 

It  ia  remarkable  with  what  Christian  fortitude 
and  resignation  we  can  bear  the  suffer- 
ing of  other  folks.  (Dean  Swift. 

One  can  neither  protect  nor  arm  himself 
against  criticism.  We  must  meet  it 
defiantly,  and  thus  gradually  please  it. 

{Goethe. 

Silence  and  reserve  suggest  latent  power. 
What  some  men  think  has  more  effect 
than  what  others  say.  {Chesterfield. 


Stratagems  in  war  and  love  are  only  honor- 
able when  successful.  {Bulwer 

A  man  behind  the  times  is  apt  to  speak  ill  of 
them,  on  the  principle  that  nothing 
looks  well  from  behind.  {Holmet. 

He  who  isn't  contented  with  what  he  has 
wouldn't  be  contented  with  what  he 
would  like  to  Aave.  {Auerbach. 

Architecture  is  a  handmaid  of  devotion.  A 
beautiful  church  is  a  sermon  in  stone, 
and  its  spire  a  finger  pointing  to  Heaven. 

{Schaff. 

A  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow, 

Is  remembering  happier  things.  {DanU. 


BALTUS  VAN  TASSEL'S  FARM. 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


ICHABOD  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart  toward  the  sex ;  and  it  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  so  tempting  a  morsel  soon  found  favor  in 
his  eyes;  more  especially  after  he  had  visited  her  in  her  paternal 
I  mansion.  Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  was  a  perfect  picture  of  a  thriving, 
contented,  liberal-hearted  farmer.  He  seldom,  it  is  true,  sent  either  his 
eyes  or  his  thoughts  beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  own  farm;  but  within 
those  everything  was  snug,  happy,  and  well-conditioned.  He  was  satisfie<l 
with  his  wealth,  but  not  proud  of  it ;  and  piqued  himself  upon  the  hearty 
abundance,  rather  than  the  style  in  which  he  lived.  His  stronghold  Wiis 
situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  in  one  of  those  green,  sheltered,  fer- 
tile nooks,  in  which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so  fond  of  nestUng.  A  great 
elm-tree  spread  its  branches  over  it,  at  the  foot  of  which  bubbled  up  a 


gQ  BALTUS  VAN  TASSEL'S  FARM. 


spring  of  the  softest  and  sweetest  water,  in  a  little  well  formed  of  a  barrel; 
and  then  stole  sparkling  away  through  the  grass,  to  a  neighboring  brook, 
that  bubbled  along  among  alders  and  dwarf  willows.  Hard  by  the  farm- 
house was  a  vast  barn,  that  might  have  served  for  a  church ;  every  window 
and  crevice  of  which  seemed  bursting  forth  with  the  treasures  of  the  farm ; 
the  flail  was  busily  resounding  within  it  from  morning  to  night;  swallows 
and  martins  skimmed  twittering  about  the  eaves;  and  rows  of  pigeons, 
some  with  one  eye  turned  up,  as  if  watching  the  weather,  some  with  their 
heads  under  their  wings,  or  buried  in  their  bosoms,  and  others  swelling, 
and  cooing,  and  bowing  about  their  dames,  were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on 
the  roof.  Sleek,  unwieldy  porkers  were  grunting  in  the  repose  and  abun- 
dance of  their  pens ;  whence  sallied  forth,  now  and  then,  troops  of  sucking 
pigs,  as  if  to  snuff  the  air.  A  stately  squadron  of  snowy  geese  were  riding 
in  an  adjoining  pond,  convoying  whole  fleets  of  ducks;  regiments  of  turkeys 
were  gobbling  through  the  farmyard,  and  guinea  fowls  fretting  about  it, 
like  ill-tempered  housewives,  with  their  peevish,  discontented  cry.  Before 
the  barn  door  strutted  the  gallant  cock,  that  pattern  of  a  husband,  a  war- 
rior, and  a  fine  gentleman,  clapping  his  burnished  wings,  and  crowing  in 
the  pride  and  gladness  of  his  heart — 
Bometimes  tearing  up  the  earth  with 
his  feet,  and  then  generously  calling  his 

ever  hungry  family  of  wives  and  child-    .^^^^j^J^^Jt 'iC  r-.-^^" 
ren  to  enjoy  the  rich  morsel  which  he 
had  discovered. 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered,  as 
he  looked  upon  this  sumptuous  promise 
of  winter  fare.    In  his  devouring  mind's 

eye,  he  pictured  to  himself  every  roasting-pig  running  about  with  a  pudding 
in  his  belly,  and  an  apple  in  his  mouth;  the  pigeons  were  snugly  put  to  bed 
in  a  comfortable  pie,  and  tucked  in  with  a  coverlet  of  crust;  the  geese  were 
swimming  in  their  own  gravy;  and  the  ducks  i)airing  cosily  in  dishes,  like 
snug  married  couplos,  with  a  decent  competency  of  onion  sauce.  In  the 
porkers  he  saw  carved  out  the  future  sleek  side  of  bacon,  and  juicy  relish- 
ing ham;  not  a  turkey  but  he  beheld  daintily  trussed  up,  with  its  gizzard 
under  its  wing,  and,  peradvcnture,  a  necklace  of  savory  sausages;  and  oven 
bright  chanticleer  himself  lay  sprawling  on  his  back,  in  a  side  disli,  with 
uplifted  claws,  as  if  craving  that  quarter  which  his  chivalrous  spirit  dis- 
dained to  ask  while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabo.l  fancied  all  this,  and  as  ho  rolled  his  great 
green  eyes  over  tho  fat  meadow-lands,  the  rich  fi''l<lH  of  whc^at,  of  rye,  of 


THE  BRIDGE. 


51 


buckwheat,  and  Indian  corn,  and  the  orchards  burdened  with  ruddy  fruit, 
which  surrounded  the  warm  tenement  of  Van  Tiissel,  his  heart  yearned 
after  the  damsel,  who  was  to  inherit  those  domains,  and  his  imagination 
expanded  with  the  idea,  how  they  might  be  readily  turned  into  cash,  and 
the  money  invested  in  immense  tracts  of  wild  land,  and  shingle  palaces  in 
the  wilderness.  Nay,  his  busy  fancy  already  realized  his  hopes,  and  pre- 
sented to  him  the  blooming  Katrina,  with  a  whole  family  of  children, 
mounted  on  the  top  of  a  wagon  loaded  with  household  trumpery,  with  pots 
and  kettles  dangling  beneath ;  and  he  beheld  himself  bestriding  a  pacing 
mare,  with  a  colt  at  her  heels,  setting  out  for  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  or  the 
Lord  knows  where. 


TRE  BRIDGE. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the 
hour, 
Viid  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  cliurch  tower ; 

And  like  the  waters  rushing 
Among  the  wooden  piers, 

A  flood  of  thought  came  o'er  me. 
That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 


How  often,  0  how  often, 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight, 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky ! 

How  often,  O  how  often, 

I  bad  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 
Would  bear  ine  away  on  its  bosom 

O'er  the  ocean  wiM  and  wide ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  resiles*, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 
4" 


And  the  burden  laid  upon  me. 
Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea ; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  yeari. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousandi 

Of  care-encumbered  men. 
Each  laving  his  burden  of  sorrow. 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro. 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless. 

And  the  old,  subdued  and  slow  ! 


52 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ. 


And  forever  and  forever, 
As  long  as  the  river  flows. 

As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 
As  long  as  life  has  woes ; 


The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear. 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven. 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


KISSING  HER  HAIR. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


Witl 


ISSING  her  hair,  I  sat  against  her  feet: 
Wove  and  unwove  it, — wound,  and 

found  it  sweet ; 
Made  fast  therewith  her  hands,  drew 

down  her  eyes. 
Deep  as  deep  flowers,  and  dreamy  like 
dim  skies ; 
her  own  tresses  bound   and  found  her 
fair, — 

Kissing  her  hair. 


Sleep  were  no  sweeter  than  her  face  to  me, — ■ 
Sleep    of   cold    sea-bloom  under    the    cold 

sea: 
What  pain  could  get  between  my  face  and 

hers? 
What  new  sweet  thing  would  Love  not  relish 

worse  ? 
Unless,  perhaps,  white  Death  had  kissed  me 

there, — 

Kissing  her  hair. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ. 


ADELAIDE   ANNIE    PROCTER. 


IRT  round  with  rugged  mountains  the 

fair  Lake  Constance  lies ; 
In  her  blue  heart  reflected,  shine  back 

the  starry  skies ; 
And  watching  each  white  cloudlet  float 

silently  and  slow, 
Tou  think  a  piece  of  heaven  lies  on  our 

earth  below ! 


Midnight  is  there :  and  silence  enthroned  in 

heaven,  looks  down 
Upon  her  own  calm  mirror,  upon  a  sleeping 

town : 
For  Bregenz,  that  quaint  city  upon  the  Tyrol 

Hhore, 
Has  Htood  above  Lake  Constance,  a  thousand 

years  and  more. 

Her  battlomento  and  towers,  upon  their  rocky 

Bteop, 
Have  cast  their  trembling  Hhadows  of  ages 

on  tlif!  df-eji ; 
Mountain,  and   lake,   and   vallr-y,   a  sacred 

legend  know, 


Of  how  the  town  was  saved  one  night,  three 
hundred  years  ago. 

Far  from  her  home  and  kindred,  a  Tyrol  maid 

had  fled, 
To  serve  in  the  Swiss  valleys,  and  toil  for 

daily  bread ; 
And  every  year  that  fleeted  so  silently  and 

fast. 
Seemed  to  bear  farther  from  her  the  memory 

of  the  past. 

She  served  kind,  gentle  masters,  nor  asked 

for  rest  or  change  ; 
Her  friends  seemed  no  more  new  ones,  their 

speech  seemed  no  more  strange ; 
And  when  she  led  her  cattle  to  pa.sture  every 

day, 
She  ceased  to   look   antl   wonder   on  whicii 

side  Bregenz  lay. 

She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz,  with  longing 

and  with  tears ; 
Her  Tyrol  home  seemed  faded  in  a  deep  mist 

of  years ; 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ. 


53 


She  heeded  not  the  rumors  of  Austrian  war 

The  men  seemed  stern  and  altered,  with  looks 

or  strife ; 

cast  on  the  ground  ; 

Each  day  she  rose  contented,  to   the   calm 

With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one,  the  women 

toils  of  life. 

gathered  round ; 

All  talk  of  flax,  or  spinning,  or  work,  was 

Yet,  when  her  master's  children  would  clus- 

put away ; 

tering  round  her  stand, 

The  very  children  seemed  afraid  to  go  alone 

She  Bang  them  the  old  ballads  of  her  own  na- 

to play. 

tive  land  ; 

And  when  at  morn  and  evening  she  knelt 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow  with  strangers 

before  God's  throne, 

from  the  town. 

The  accents  of  her  childhood  rose  to  her  lips 

Some  secret  plan  discussing,  the  men  walked 

alone. 

up  and  down. 

"  Girt  round  with  rugged  mountains." 


And  80  she  dwelt :  the  valley  more  peaceful 

year  by  year ; 
When  suddenly  strange  portents  of  some  great 

deed  seemed  near. 
The  golden  corn  was  bending  upon  its  fragile 

stalk. 
While  farmers,  heedless  of  their  fields,  paced 

up  and  down  in  talk. 


Yet  now  and  then  seemed  watching  a  strange 

uncertain  gleam. 
That  looked  like  lances  'mid  the  trees  that 

stood  below  the  stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled,  all  care  and  doubt 

were  fled ; 
With  jovial  laugh  they  feasted,  the  board 

was  nobly  spread. 


54 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ. 


The  elder  of  the  village  rose  up,  his  glass  in 

hand, 
And  cried,   "  We   drink  the  downfall  of  an 

accursed  land ! 

••  The  night  is  growing  darker,  ere  one  more 

day  is  flown, 
Bregenz,  our   foemen's   stronghold,    Bregenz 

shall  be  our  own  !  " 
The  women  shrank  in  terror,  (yet  pride,  too, 

had  her  part,) 
But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden  felt  death  within 

her  heart. 

Before  her,  stood   fair   Bregenz,  once   more 

her  towers  arose ; 
What  were  the  friends  beside  her  ?  Only  her 

country's  foes ! 
The  faces  of  her  kinsfolk,  the  day  of  childhood 

flown. 
The  echoes  of  lur  mountains  reclaimed  her 

as  tlieir  own  ! 

Nothing  sjie  heard  around  her,  (though  shouts 
rang  forth  again,) 

Gone  were  the  green  Swiss  valleys,  the  pas- 
ture, and  the  plain ; 

Before  her  eyes  one  vision,  and  in  her  heart 
one  cry. 

That  said,  "  Go  forth,  save  Bregenz,  and 
then  if  need  be,  die!  " 

With   trembling  haste  and  brc-athless,  with 

noiseless  step  she  sped  ; 
Uorsi-s  and  weary  cattle  were  standing  in 

tlif!  shed ; 
She  loosed  the  strong  wliite  charger,  that  fed 

from  out  licr  liand, 
8he  mounted  and  she  turned  liis  head  toward 

her  native  land. 

Out — out  into  tlie  darkness — fa-^tcr,  ami  xtill 
more  fast ; 

Tlio  smooth  j^rass  tiioH  behind  lier,  tlie  chest- 
nut wood  is  pa.MHed  ; 

•She  looks  up ;  clouds  are  heavy  :  Wliy  is  her 
steed  so  slow  ? — 

Scarcely  Ihi*  wind  beside  them,  can  pass  them 
as  they  go. 

"Faster!"  she  cries,  "Oli,  faster!"  Eleven 
the  cliun  )i  bell^  chime  ; 


"  0   God,"    she   cries,    "  help   Bregenz,   and 

bring  me  there  in  time  !  " 
But  louder  than  bells'  ringing,  or  lowing  of 

the  kine. 
Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight  the  mshing  d 

the  Rhine. 

Shall  not  the  roaring  waters  their  headlong 

gallop  check  ? 
The  steed  draws  back  in   terror,  she  leans 

above  his  neck 
To  watch  the  flowing  darkness,  the  bank  is 

high  and  steep, 
One  pause — he  staggers  forward,  and  plunges 

in  the  deep. 

She  strives  to  pierce  the  blackness,  and  looser 

throws  the  rein ; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters  that  dash 

above  his  mane. 
How    gallantly,    how    nobly,   he    struggles 

through  the  foam. 
And  see — in  the  far  distance,  shine  out  the 

liglits  of  home ! 

Up  the  steep  bank  he  licars  her,  and  now 

they  rush  again 
Towards  the  heights  of  Bregenz,  that  towei 

above  the  plain. 
They  reach  the  gate  of  Bregenz,  just  as  the 

midnight  rings. 
And  out  como  serf  and  soldier  to  meet  the 

news  .she  brings. 

Bregenz  is  saved !   Ere  dayliglit  hor  baltl«- 

ments  are  manned ; 
Defiance  greets  the  army  that  marches  on  the 

land. 
And  if  to  deeds  heroic  should  endless  fame 

be  paid, 
Bregenz  does  w(dl  to  Iionor  tlie  noble  Tyrol 

maid. 

Three  hundred  years  arc  vaiiish((d,  and  yet 

ujion  tlie  hill 
An  old  stone  gateway  rises,  (o  ilo  her  honor 

still. 
An<l  there,  wheti  Bregenz  women  sit  sjiiiuiing 

in  the  .'^IkkIc, 
They  see  the  quaint  old  carving,  the  cbargel 

and  the  maid. 


WINTER. 


65 


A.nd  when,  to  guard  old  Brcgcnz,  by  gateway, 

street,  and  tower, 
the  warder  paces  all  night  long,  and  calls 

each  passing  hour : 


"Nine,"    "ten,"    "eleven,"   he  cries  aloud 

and  then  (0  crown  of  fame !) 
When  midnight  pauses  in  the  ekies  he  calif 

the  maiden's  name. 


WINTER. 


DOUGL.-VS    JERROLD, 


^IIE  streets  were  empty.  Pitiless  cold  had  driven  all  who  had  the 
shelter  of  a  roof  to  their  homes  ;  and  the  north-east  blast  seemed 
to  howl  in  triumph  above  the  untrodden  snow.  Winter  v/as  at  the 
heart  of  all  things.  The  wretched,  dumb  with  excessive  misery, 
suffered,  in  stupid  resignation,  the  tyranny  of  the  season.  Human 
blood  stagnated  in  the  breast  of  want ;  and  death  in  that  despair- 
ing hour,  losing  its  terrors,  looked  in  the  eyes  of  many  a  wretch  a  sweet 
deliverer.  It  was  a  time  when  the  very  poor,  barred  fi'om  the  commonest 
things  of  earth,  take  strange  counsel  with  themselves,  and,  in  the  deep 
humility  of  destitution,  believe  they  are  the  burden  and  the  olflil  of  the 
world. 

It  wjis  a  time  when  the  easy,  comfortable  man,  touched  with  finest 
sense  of  human  suffering,  gives  from  his  abundance  ;  and,  whilst  bestow- 
ing, feels  almost  ashamed  that,  with  such  wide-spread  misery  circled  round 
him,  he  has  all  things  fitting,  all  things  grateful.  The  smitten  spirit  asks 
wherefore  he  is  not  of  the  multitude  of  wretchedness ;  dtMuands  to  know 
for  what  especial  excellence  he  is  promoted  above  the  thousand  thousand 
starving  creatures  :  in  his  very  tenderness  for  misery,  tests  his  privilege  of 


56 


THE  QUILTING. 


exemption  from  a  woe  that  withers  manhood  in  man,  bowing  him  down- 
ward to  the  brute.     And  so  questioned,  this  man  gives  in  modesty  of  spirit 

in  very  thankfulness  of  soul.     His  alms  are  not  cold,  formal  charities; 

but  reverent  sacrifices  to  his  sufi'ering  brother. 

It  was  a  time  when  selfishness  hugs  itself  in  its  own  warmth  ;  with  no 
other  thoughts  than  of  its  pleasant  possessions ;  all  made  pleasanter, 
sweeter,  by  the  desolation  around.  When  the  mere  worldling  rejoices  the 
more  in  his  warm  chamber  because  it  is  so  bitter  cold  without,  when  he 
eats  and  drinks  with  whetted  appetite,  because  he  hears  of  destitution 
prowling  like  a  wolf  around  his  well-barred  house ;  when,  in  fine,  he  bears 
his  every  comfort  about  him  with  the  pride  of  a  conqueror.  A  time  when 
such  a  man  sees  in  the  misery  of  his  fellow-beings  nothing  save  his  own 
victory  of  fortune — his  own  successes  in  a  suffering  world.  To  such  a 
man,  the  poor  are  but  the  tattered  slaves  that  grace  his  triumph. 

It  was  a  time,  too,  when  human  nature  often  shows  its  true  divinity, 
and  with  misery  like  a  garment  clinging  to  it,  forgets  its  wretchedness  in 
sympathy  with  suffering.  A  time,  when  in  the  cellars  and  garrets  of  the 
poor  are  acted  scenes  which  make  the  noblest  heroism  of  life;  which 
prove  the  immortal  texture  of  the  human  heart,  not  wholly  seared  by  the 
branding-iron  of  the  torturing  hours.  A  time  when  in  want,  in  anguish, 
in  throes  of  mortal  agony,  some  seed  is  sown  that  bears  a  flower  in 
heaven. 


THE  QUILTING. 


ANNA   BACHE. 


!  r  !■;  'lay  is  set,  the  ladies  met, 
And  at  the  frame  are  seated, 
I II  order  placed,  they  work  in  haste, 
To  get  the  quilt  coni[ileted  ; 
<^        Willie  fingers  liy,  their  tongues  they 

T  And  animate  their  labors 

By  counting  beaux,  discussing  clothes, 
Or  talking  of  their  neighbors. 

"  Dear !  wliat  a  pretty  frock  you've  on  ;" 

"  I'm  very  glad  you  like  it;" 
"  I'm  told  that  Miss  Micomicon 

Don't  speak  U)  Mr.  Micat<»." 
'  I  saw  Miss  Belle,  the  other  day. 

Young  Green's  new  gig  adorning;" 
*  What  keeps  your  sister  Ann  away  ?" 

"  iShe  went  to  town  this  morning." 


"'Tis  time  to  roll;"  "my needle's  broke;" 

"  So  Martin's  stock  is  selling." 
"  L()uiaa'.s  wedding  gown's  bespoke  ;" 

"  Lend  me  your  scissors,  Elhu  ;" 
"  That  match  will  never  come  about;" 

"  Now  don't  fly  in  a  passion  ;" 
"  Hair  pufi<  lliey  say  are  going  out;" 

"  Yes,  curls  are  all  the  fashion." 

The  fpiilt  is  done,  the  tea  begun, 

The  beaux  are  all  collecting ; 
The  table's  cleared,  the  music's  heard,— 

His  partner  eacli  selecting; — 
Tiie  merry  band  in  order  stand. 

The  <laii(e  begins  witli  vigor, 
.\nd  ra]iiil  ftint  the  measure  boat, 

And  trip  the  mazy  figure. 


QAPESEED. 


67 


Unheeded  fly  the  minutes  by, 
"  Old  time  "  himself  is  dancing, 

Till  night's  dull  eye  is  op'ed  lo  spy 
The  light  of  morn  advancing. 


All  closely  stowed ;  to  each  abode 

The  cairiages  go  tilting  ; 
And  many  a  dream  has  for  its  theme 

The  pleasures  of  the  quilting. 


BUYING  GAPE-SEED. 


JOHN   B.    GOUGH. 


YANKEE,  walking  the  streets  of  London,  looked  through  a  win- 
dow upon  a  group  of  men  writing  very  rapidly ;  and  one  of  them 
said  to  him  in  an  insulting  manner,  "  Do  you  wish  to  buy  some 
gape-seed  ?"  Passing  on  a  short  distance  the  Yankee  met  a  man, 
i;  and  asked  him  what  the  business  of  those  men  was  in  the  office  he 

J  had  just  passed.     He  was  told  that  they  wrote  letters  dictated  by 

others,  and  transcribed  all  sorts  of  documents  ;  in  short,  they  were  writers. 
The  Yankee  returned  to  the  office,  and  inquired  if  one  of  the  men  would 
write  a  letter  for  him,  and  was  answered  in  the  affirmative.  He  asked  the 
price,  and  was  told  one  dollar.  After  considerable  talk,  the  bargain  was 
made ;  one  of  the  conditions  of  which  was  that  the  scribe  should  write 
just  what  the  Yankee  told  him  to,  or  he  should  receive  no  pay.  The 
scribe  told  the  Yankee  he  was  ready  to  begin  ;  and  the  latter  said, — 

"  Dear  marra  :"  and  then  asked,  "  Have  you  got  that  deown  ?" 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "go  on." 

*'  I  went  to  ride  t'other  day  :  have  you  got  that  deown  ?" 

"  Yes ;  go  on,  go  on." 

"  And  I  harnessed  up  the  old  mare  into  the  wagon :  have  you  got  that 
Aeown?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  long  ago  ;  go  on."' 

"  Why,  how  fast  you  write  !  And  I  got  into  the  wagon,  and  aat 
deown,  and  drew  up  the  reins,  and  took  the  whip  in  my  right  hand  :  have 
you  got  that  deow-n  ?" 

"  Yes,  long  ago ;  go  on." 

"  Dear  me,  how  fast  you  write !  I  never  saw  your  equal.  And  I 
said  to  the  old  mare,  '  Go  'long,'  and  jerked  the  reins  pretty  hard  :  have 
you  got  that  deown  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  am  impatiently  waiting  for  more.  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
bother  me  with  so  many  foolish  questions.     Go  on  with  your  letter." 

"  "Well,  the  old  mare  wouldn't  stir  out  of  her  tracks,  and  I  hollered, 
'  Go  'long,  you  old  jade  !  go  'long.'     Have  you  got  that  deown  ?" 


58  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE  AT  BALAKLAVA. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  you  pestersome  fellow  ;  go  on." 

"  And  I  licked  her,  and  licked  her,  and  licked  her  [continuing  to 
repeat  these  words  as  rapidly  as  possible.] 

"  Hold  on  there !  I  have  written  two  pages  of  '  licked  her,'  and  I 
want  the  rest  of  the  letter.' 

"  Well,  and  she  kicked,  and  she  kicked,  and  she  kicked — [continuing 
to  repeat  these  words  with  great  rapidity.] 

"  Do  go  on  with  your  letter ;  I  have  several  pages  of  ' she  kicked' " 

[The  Yankee  clucks  as  in  urging  horses  to  move,  and  continues  the 
clucking  noise  with  rapid  repetition  for  some  time.] 

The  scribe  throws  down  his  pen. 

"  Write  it  deown  !  write  it  deown  !" 

"I  can't!" 

"  Well  then,  I  won't  pay  you." 

[The  scribe,  gathering  up  his  papers.]  "  What  shall  I  do  with  all 
these  sheets  upon  which  I  have  written  your  nonsense  ?" 

"  You  may  use  them  in  doing  up  your  gape-seed.     Good-by  !" 


THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE  AT  BALAKLA  VA. 


WILLIAM    H.    RUSSELL. 

j,p,Y^riE  whole  brigade  scarcely  made  one  effective  regiment  according  to 
the  numbers  of  continental  armies;  and  yet  it  was  moi'c  than  wo 
could  spare.  As  they  rushed  towards  the  front,  the  Ptussians 
opened  on  them  from  the  guns  in  the  reiloul)t  on  the  right,  with 
volleys  of  musketry  and  rifles.  They  swept  proudly  past,  glitter- 
ing in  the  morning  sun  in  all  the  pride  and  splendor  of  war. 
We  could  scarcely  l)elievo  the  evidence  of  our  senses  !  Surely  that  handful 
of  men  arc  not  going  to  charge  an  army  in  position  ?  Alas  I  it  was  but 
too  true — their  desperate  valor  knew  no  bounds,  and  fai'  indeed  was  it 
removed  from  its  so-called  bettor  part — discretion.  They  advanccil  in  two 
linos,  <|uick*Mjing  tlieir  pace  as  they  closed  towards  the  onomy.  A  more 
fearful  spectacle  wa«  never  witnessed  than  by  those  who,  without  the 
power  to  aid,l)oholrl  their  heroic  countrymen  rushing  to  tlu;  ai'ins  of  deatlu 
At  the  distance  of  1200  yards,  the  wliole  line  of  the  enemy  belched  forth, 
from  thirty  iron  mouths,  a  flood  of  smoke  and  llarm-,  ihrongh  which  hissctd 
the  deadly  balls.     Tiieii-  flight  was  marked  by  instant  gaps  in  om-  lanks, 


CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


59 


by  dead  men  and  horses,  by  steeds  flying  wounded  or  riderless  across  the 
plain.  The  first  line  is  broken ;  it  is  joined  by  the  second ;  they  never 
halt  or  check  their  speed  an  instant.  With  diminished  ranks,  thinned  by 
those  thirty  guns,  which  the  Eussians  had  laid  with  the  most  deadly  accu- 
racy, with  a  halo  of  flashing  steel  above  their  heads,  and  with  a  cheer 
which  was  many  a  noble  fellow's  death-cry,  they  flew  into  the  smoke  of  the 
batteries,  but  ere  they  were  lost  from  view,  the  plain  was  strewed  with 
their  bodies  and  with  the  carcasses  of  horses.  They  were  exposed  to  an 
oblique  fire  from  the  batteries  on  the  hills  on  both  sides,  as  well  as  to  a 
direct  fire  of  musketry.  Through  the  clouds  of  smoke  we  could  see  their 
sabres  flashing  as  they  rode  up  to  the  guns  and  dashed  between  them, 
cutting  down  the  gunners  as  they  stood.  We  saw  them  riding  through 
the  guns,  as  I  have  said ;  to  our  delight  we  saw  them  returning,  after 
breaking  through  a  column  of  Kussian  infantry,  and  scattering  them  like 
cliafi',  when  the  flank  fire  of  the  battery  on  the  hill  swept  them  down, 
scattered  and  broken  as  they  were.  Wounded  men  and  dismounted 
troopers  flying  towards  us  told  the  sad  tale — demigods  could  not  have 
done  what  we  had  failed  to  do. 


CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


'•^/y^ 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 


ALF  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 

All  in  the  valley  of  death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade ! 

Charge  for  the  guns  !"  he  said. 

Into  the  valley  of   death, 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 


"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  !" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 
Not  though  the  soldiers  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered  : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die  : 
Into  the  valley  of  death. 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 


Cannon  in  front  of  them. 
Volleyed  and  thundered  : 

Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 

Boldly  they  rode  and  well : 

Into  the  jaws  of  death. 

Into  the  mouth  of  hell. 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabers  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air, 
Sab'ring  the  gunners  there. 
Charging  an  army,  vrhile 

All  tlie  worM  wondered  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery  smoke, 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  saber-stroke. 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back — but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 


60 


THE  PLEASURE  BOAT. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

All  that  was  left  of  them. 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

Cannon  behind  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered : 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 

Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 

0,  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

While  horse  and  hero  fell, 

All  the  world  wondered. 

They  that  had  fought  so  well. 

Honor  the  charge  they  mai« ! 

Came  through  the  jaws  of  death, 

Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Back  from  the  mouth  of  hell. 

Noble  six  hundred  ! 

TEE  PLEASURE  BOAT. 


RICHARD    HENRY    DANA. 


ffmOME,  hoi.st  the  sail,  the  fast  let  go ! 
9/M.       They're  seated  side  by  side  ; 

?  >i4    Wave  chases  wave  in  pleasant  flow ; 

^'■^        The  bay  is  fair  and  wide. 

¥     The  ripples  lightly  tap  the  boat. 
I         Loose  !     Give  her  to  the  wind  ! 
Hhc  shoots  ahead  ;  tliey're  all  afloat ; 
Tlie  strand  is  far  b.-hind. 


The  sunlight  falling  on  her  sheet, 

It  glitters  like  the  drift, 
Sparkling,  in  scorn  of  summer's  heat, 

High  up  some  mountain  rift. 


Tin;  winds  are  fresh  ;  she's  driving  fast 

Upon  the  bending  tide  ; 
The  crinkling  sail,  and  crinkling  mast, 

Cto  with  her  side  by  side. 

Tlio  parting  sun  sends  out  aglow 

A(To.><s  th«»  plai'id  bay, 
Touching  with  nlory  all  the  show, — 

A  brcezo!   (Tp  hi'lm  !     Away  ! 

Careening  to  the  wind,  th(!y  reach, 
Willi  laugh  and  call,  the  shore. 

'Jlir-y'vo  left  their  footprints  on  tho  beach, 
But  them  I  hear  no  more. 


CATCHING  THE  MORNING  TRAIN.  Qi 


CATCHING  THE  MORNING  TRAIN. 


MAX   ADELER. 


FIND  that  one  of  the  most  serious  objections  to  living  out  of  town 
lies  in  the  difficulty  experienced  in  catching  the  early  morning  train 
by  which  I  must  reach  the  city  and  ray  business.  It  is  by  no  means 
a  pleasant  matter,  under  any  circumstances,  to  have  one's  movements 
regulated  by  a  time-table,  and  to  be  obliged  to  rise  to  breakfast  and 
to  leave  home  at  a  certain  hour,  no  matter  how  strong  the  temptation 
to  delay  may  be.  But  sometimes  the  horrible  punctuality  of  the  train  is 
productive  of  absolute  suffering.  For  instance  :  I  look  at  my  watch  when 
I  get  out  of  bed  and  find  that  I  have  apparently  plenty  of  time,  so  I  dress 
leisurely,  and  sit  down  to  the  morning  meal  in  a  frame  of  mind  which  is 
calm  and  serene.  Just  as  I  crack  my  first  egg  I  hear  the  down  train  from 
Wilmington.  I  start  in  alarm ;  and  taking  out  my  watch  I  compare  it  with 
the  clock  and  find  that  it  is  eleven  minutes  slow,  and  that  I  have  only  five 
minutes  left  in  which  to  get  to  the  depot. 

I  endeavor  to  scoop  the  egg  from  the  shell,  but  it  burns  my  fingers, 
the  skin  is  tough,  and  after  struggling  with  it  for  a  moment,  it  mashes  into 
a  hopeless  mass.  I  drop  it  in  disgust  and  seize  a  roll ;  while  I  scald  my 
tongue  with  a  quick  mouthful  of  coffee.  Then  I  place  the  roll  in  my 
mouth  while  my  wife  hands  me  my  satchel  and  tells  me  she  thinks  she 
Hears  the  whistle.  I  plunge  madly  around  looking  for  my  umbrella,  then 
I  kiss  the  family  good-by  as  well  as  I  can  with  a  mouth  full  of  roll,  and 
dash  toward  the  door. 

Just  as  I  get  to  the  gate  I  find  that  I  have  forgotten  my  duster  and  the 
bundle  my  wife  wanted  me  to  take  up  to  the  city  to  her  aunt.  Charging 
back,  I  snatch  them  up  and  tear  down  the  gravel-walk  in  a  frenzy.  I  do 
not  like  to  run  through  the  village :  it  is  undignified  and  it  attracts  atten- 
tion ;  but  I  walk  furiously.  I  go  faster  and  faster  as  I  get  away  from  the 
main  street.  When  half  the  distance  is  accomplished,  I  actually  do  hear 
the  whistle  ;  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it  this  time.  I  loncj  to  run. 
but  I  know  that  if  I  do  I  will  excite  that  abominable  speckled  dog  sitting 
by  the  sidewalk  a  little  distance  ahead  of  me.  Then  I  really  see  the  train 
coming  around  the  curve  close  by  the  depot,  and  I  feel  that  I  inuU  make 
better  time ;  and  I  do.  The  dog  immediately  manifests  an  interest  in  my 
movements.  He  tears  down  the  street  after  me,  and  is  speedily  joined  by  five 
or  six  other  dogs,  which  frolic  about  my  legs  and  bark  furiously.  Sundry 
small  boys  as  I  go  plunging  past,  contribute  to  the  excitement  by  whisthng 


62 


LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 


with  their  fingers,  and  the  men  \vho  are  at  work  upon  the  new  meeting 
house  stop  to  look  at  me  and  exchange  jocular  remarks  with  each  other.  J 
do  feel  ridiculous ;  but  I  must  catch  that  train  at  all  hazards. 

I  become  desperate  when  I  have  to  slacken  my  pace  until  two  or  three 
women  who  are  standing  upon  the  sidewalk,  discussing  the  infamous  price 
of  butter,  scatter  to  let  me  pass.  I  arrive  within  a  few  yards  of  the  sta 
tion  with  my  duster  flying  in  the  wind,  with  my  coat  tails  in  a  horizontal 
position,  and  with  the  speckled  dog  nipping  my  heels,  just  as  the  train 
begins  to  move.  I  put  on  extra  pressure,  resolving  to  get  the  train  or 
perish,  and  I  reach  it  just  as  the  last  car  is  goi^g  by.  I  seize  the  hand- 
rail ;  I  am  jerked  violently  around,  but  finally,  after  a  desperate  efibrt,  I 
get  upon  the  step  with  my  knees,  and  am  hauled  in  by  the  brakeman,  hot, 
dusty  and  mad,  with  my  trousers  torn  across  the  knees,  my  legs  bruised 
and  three  ribs  of  my  umbrella  broken. 

Just  as  I  reach  a  comfortable  seat  in  the  car,  the  train  stops,  and  then 
backs  up  on  the  siding,  where  it  remains  for  half  an  hour  while  the 
engineer  repairs  a  dislocated  valve.  The  anger  which  burns  in  my  bosom 
as  I  reflect  upon  what  now  is  proved  to  have  been  the  folly  of  that  race  is 
increased  as  I  look  out  of  the  window  and  observe  the  speckled  dog 
engaged  with  his  companions  in  an  altercation  over  a  bone.  A  man  who 
permits  his  dog  to  roam  about  the  streets  nipping  the  legs  of  every  one 
who  happens  to  go  at  a  more  rapid  gait  than  a  walk,  is  unfit  for  association 
with  civilized  beings.  He  ought  to  be  placed  on  a  desert  island  in  mid- 
ocean,  and  be  compelled  to  stay  there. 


LAMENT  OF  TUE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 


LADY   DUFFERIN. 


I'M  Bitting  on  tho  etilo,  Mary, 

Where  wo  sat  aide  by  Bide 
On  a  bright  May  morning,  long  ago. 

When  first  you  were  my  bride ; 
Tho  corn  wm  flf»ringing  fresh  and  green. 

And  tho  lark  sang  loud  and  high  ; 
And  the  red  Wiw  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love  light  in  your  eyo. 


TJio  jdaoe  is  little  changed,  Mary, 
Tho  day  an  bright  as  then  ; 


The  lark'n  loud  Bong  is  in  in}'  ear. 
And  the  corn  is  green  again  ; 

But  I  misa  tho  soft  clasp  of  your  hand. 
And  your  breath  warm  on  my  chock  ; 

And  I  Btill  keep  listening  for  tho  worde 
You  never  more  will  speak. 

'  Tis  but  a  ntep  down  j'ondiT  lane, 
And  the  little  church  Htandw  near — 

The  church  where  we  wore  wed,  Mary ; 
I  BOO  tho  spire  from  hero. 


THE  SNOW-STORM. 


63 


Sut  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 
And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — 

?or  I've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep 
With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 


I'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends  ; 
But,  Oh !  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends  ! 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary — 

My  blessing  and  my  pride  ; 
There's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Fours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on. 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone ; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip. 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 
C  Hess  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Tho'  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 


I  thank  you  fur  the  patient  smile 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break — 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawing  tx-jre 

And  you  did  it  for  my  sake  ; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word. 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore — 
Oh  !  I'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more! 

I'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary — kind  and  true  ! 
But  I'll  not  forget  you  darling, 

In  the  land  I'm  going  to ; 
They  say  there's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there — 
But  I'll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I'll  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies  ; 
And  I'll  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side. 
And  the  springing  corn,  and  the  bright  May 
morn 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


THE  SNOW-STORM. 


EMERSON. 


*<  i«r*,>XNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of 
the  sky. 
Arrives  the  snow ;  and,  driving  o'er 
the  fields, 
I  Seems  nowhere  to  alight ;  tho  whited 

>  air 

t  Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the 

heaven, 
A.nd  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's 

feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates 

sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 


Come  see  the  north-wind's  masonry. 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry,  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  root 
Round  every  windward  stake  or  tree  or  door; 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage ;  naught  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Farian  wreath* , 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn  ; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall 
Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs ;  and  at  the  gat« 
A  tapering  turret  overtoj*  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  th* 
world 


64 


THE  HOMES  OF  ENGLAND. 


Is  all  his  own,  retiring  as  he  were  not, 
L*iaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished 
Art 


To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  hy  stone. 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 


THE  RIVER  TIME. 


BENJAMIN    F.    TAYLOR. 


H !   a  wonderful  stream  is  the   river 
Time, 

?  jgii      As  it  runs  through  the  realm  of  tears, 
%^  With  a  faultless  rhythm  and  a  musical 
rhyme 
And  a  broader  sweep  and  a  surge  sub- 
lime, 
As  it  blends  in  the  ocean  of  years ! 

How  the  winters  are  drifting  like  flakes  of 
enow, 
And  the  summers  like  birds  between, 
And  the  years  in  the  sheaf,  how  they  come 

and  they  go 
On  the  river's  breast  with  its  ebb  and  its  flow. 
As  it  glides  in  the  shadow  and  sheen ! 

There's  a  magical  isle  up  the  river  Time, 
Where  the  softest  of  airs  are  playing, 
There's  a  cloudless  sky  and  a  tropical  clime, 
And  a  song  as  sweet  as  a  vesper  chime. 
And  the  Junes  with  the  roses  are  straying. 

And  the  name  of  this  isle  is  the  "  Long  Ago," 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  there  ; 
There   are  brows  of  beauty  and  bosoms  of 
snow, 


There  are  heaps  of  dust — oh !  we  loved  then: 
so — 
There  are  trinkets  and  tresses  of  hair. 

There  are  fragments  of  songs   that  nobody 
sings. 
There  are  parts  of  an  infant's  pra3-er, 
There's  a  lute  unswept  and  a  harp  without 

strings, 
There  are  broken  vows  and  pieces  of  rings, 
And  the  garments  our  loved  used  to  wear 

There  are  hands  that  are  waved  wlien  tha 
fairy  shore 
By  the  fitful  mirage  is  lifted  in  air, 
And  we  sometimes  hear  through  the  turbn- 

lent  roar 
Sweet  voices  we  heard  in  the  days  gone  h^ 
fore. 
When  the  wind  down  the  river  was  fair. 

Oh !  remembered  for  aye  be  that  blessed  isle, 
All  the  day  of  our  life  until  night; 

And  when  evening  glows  with  its  beautiful 
smile. 

And  our  eyes  are  closing  in  slumbers  awhile, 
May  the  greenwood  of  soul  be  in  sight. 


THE  HOMES  OF  ENGLAND. 


FELICIA   D.    HEMANS. 


I^HK  -tat'ly  Homes  of  England, 
^  How  beautiful  thoy  stand! 
Htfi.'Y   .Vrni'lst  their  tall  ancestral  trees. 
O'er  all  the  plea-sant  land  ; 
The  deer  across    their   greensward 
bound 
Tlirough  shade  and  sunny  gleam, 
And  the  swan  glides  pa«t  thom  with  the 

Hound 
Of  i>ome  rejoicing  stream. 


The  merry  Homes  of  England  I 
Around  tlieir  hearllis  by  night, 
What   gla<lHoin(!    looks   of  household 

lov.- 
Meet  in  the  rud<ly  light. 
Tliero  woman's  voice  flows   forth   to 

song, 
Or  .jiildish  talr.  JH  lold  ; 
Or  li[(H  move  tunefully  along 
Some  glorious  page  of  old- 


THE  HOMES  OF  ENGLAND. 


6fi 


The  blessed  Homes  of  England ' 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 

Is  laid  the  holy  quietness 

That  breathes  from  Sabbath  hours  ! 


The  cottage  Homes  of  England  I 

By  thousands  on  her  plains, 

They  are  smiling  o'er  the  silvery  brooki 

And  round  the  hamlet-fanes. 


AN    E5GLISU    ANCESTR.\L    HOMESTEAD. 


Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church-bell's  chime 
Floats  through  their  woods  at  morn ; 
All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time, 
Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 


Through  glowing  orchards  forth  they  peep 
Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves  ; 
And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleert. 
Aa  the  bird  beneath  their  eaves 


66 


AFRICAN  HOSPITALITY. 


The  free,  fair  Homes  of  England ! 
Long,  long  in  hut  and  hall, 
May  hearts  of  native  proof  be  reared 
To  guard  each  hallowed  wall ! 


And  green  forever  be  the  groves, 
And  bright  the  flowery  sod. 
Where  first  the  child's  glad  spirit  lovee 
Its  country  and  its  God. 


AFRICAN  HOSPITALITY. 


MUNGO   PARK. 


pp  WAITED  more  than  two  hours  without  having  an  opportunity  of 
crossing  the  river,  during  which  time  the  people  who  had  crossed 
carried  information  to  Man-song,  the  king,  that  a  white  man  was 
waiting  for  a  passage,  and  was  coming  to  see  him.  He  immediately 
sent  over  one  of  his  chief  men,  who  informed  me  that  the  king  could 
not  possibly  see  me  until  he  knew  what  had  brought  me  into  his 
country;  and  that  I  must  not  presume  to  cross  the  river  without  the  king's 
permission.  He  therefore  advised  me  to  lodge  at  a  distant  village,  to  which 
ke  pointed,  for  the  night,  and  said  that  in  the  morning  he  would  give  me 
further  instructions  how  to  conduct  myself. 

This  was  very  discouraging.  However,  as  there  was  no  remedy,  I  set 
oflf  for  the  village,  where  I  found,  to  my  great  mortification,  that  no 
person  would  admit  me  into  his  house.  I  was  regarded  with  astonishment 
and  fear,  and  was  obliged  to  sit  all  day  without  victuals  in  the  shade  of  a 
tree;  and  the  night  threatened  to  be  very  uncomfortable — for  the  wind 
rose,  and  there  was  great  appearance  of  a  heavy  rain — and  the  wild  beasts 
are  so  very  numerous  in  the  neighborhood,  that  I  should  have  been 
under  the  necessity  of  climbing'  up  the  trees  and  resting  amongst  the 
branches.  About  sunset,  however,  as  I  was  preparing  to  pass  the  niglit  in 
this  manner,  and  ha<l  turned  my  horse  loose  that  he  might  graze  at 
liberty,  a  woman,  returning  from  the  labors  of  the  field,  stopped  to 
observe  me,  and  perceiving  that  I  was  weary  and  dejected,  inquired  into  my 
situation,  which  I  briefly  explained  to  licr  ;  whereupon,  witli  looks  of  groat 
compassion,  she  took  up  my  saddle  and  bridh;,  and  tohl  me  to  follow  her. 
Having  conducted  mo  into  her  hut,  she  liglitotl  up  a  lamp,  spread  a  mat 
on  the  floor,  and  told  me  I  might  remain  (hero  for  the  night.  Finding 
that  I  was  very  liungry,  she  said  hIh;  would  procure  me  something  to  eat. 
She  went  out,  and  n.-turnod  in  a  short  time  with  a  very  fine  fish,  whicli; 
liaving  caused  to  bo  half  broil«'d  upon  Hom<;  embers,  she  gave  me  for 
supper. 


THE  HEBREW  RACE.  gy 


The  rites  of  hospitality  being  thus  performed  towards  a  stranger  in 
distress,  my  worthy  benefactress — pointing  to  the  mat,  and  telling  me  I 
might  sleep  there  without  apprehension — called  to  the  female  part  of  her 
family,  who  had  stood  gazing  on  me  all  the  while  in  fixed  astonishment,  to 
resume  their  task  of  spinning  cotton,  in  which  they  continued  to  emDloy 
themselves  a  great  part  of  the  night.  They  lightened  their  labor  by  songs, 
one  of  which  was  composed  extempore,  for  I  was  myself  the  subject  of  it. 
It  was  sung  by  one  of  the  young  women,  the  rest  joining  in  a  sort  of 
chorus.  The  aii  was  sweet  and  plaintive,  and  the  words,  literally  trans- 
lated, were  these  :  "  The  winds  roared,  and  the  rains  fell.  The  poor  white 
man,  faint  and  weary,  came  and  sat  under  our  tree.  He  has  no  mother  to 
bring  him  milk — no  wife  to  grind  his  corn.  Chorus — Let  us  pity  the 
white  man — no  mother  has  he,"  etc.  Trifling  as  this  recital  may  appear  to 
the  reader,  to  a  person  in  my  situation  the  circumstance  was  afiecting  in 
the  highest  degree.  I  was  oppressed  by  such  unexpected  kindness,  and 
sleep  fled  from  my  eyes.  In  the  morning  I  presented  my  compassionate 
landlady  with  two  of  the  four  brass  buttons  which  remained  on  my  waist- 
coat— the  only  recompense  I  could  make  her. 


THE  HEBREW  RACE. 


BENJAMIN   DISRAELI. 


^pAVORED  by  nature  and  by  nature's  God,  we  produced  the  lyre  of 
David ;  we  gave  you  Isaiah  and  Ezekiel ;  they  are  our  Olynthians, 
our  Philippics.  Favored  by  nature  we  still  remain ;  but  in  exact 
proportion  as  we  have  been  favored  by  nature,  we  have  been  per- 
secuted by  man.  After  a  thousand  struggles — after  acts  of  heroic 
courage  that  Rome  has  never  equalled — deeds  of  divine  patriotism 
that  Athens,  and  Sparta,  and  Carthage  have  never  excelled — we  have  en- 
dured fifteen  hundred  years  of  supernatural  slavery ;  during  which,  every 
device  that  can  degrade  or  destroy  man  has  been  the  destiny  that  we  have 
sustained  and  baffled.  The  Hebrew  child  has  entered  adolescence  only  to 
learn  that  he  was  the  Pariah  of  that  ungrateful  Europe  that  owes  to  him 
the  best  part  of  its  laws,  a  fine  portion  of  its  literature,  all  its  religion. 

Great  poets  require  a  public  ;  we  have  been  content  with  the  immor- 
tal melodies  that  we  sung  more  than  two  thousand  years  ago  by  the  watere 
of  Babylon  and  wept.     They  record  our  triumphs  ;  they  solace  our  afflic- 
5 


(58 


THE  POET'S  SO^'G  TO  HIS  WIFE. 


tion.  Great  orators  are  the  creatures  of  popular  assemblies ;  we  were 
permitted  only  by  stealth  to  meet  even  in  our  temples.  And  as  for  great 
writers,  the  catalogue  is  not  blank.  What  are  all  the  school-men, 
Aquinas  himself,  to  Maimonides?  and  as  for  modern  philosophy,  ail 
springs  from  Spinoza  !  But  the  passionate  and  creative  genius  that  is  the 
nearest  link  to  divinity,  and  which  no  human  tyranny  can  destroy,  though 
it  can  divert  it;  that  should  have  stirred  the  hearts  of  nations  by  its 
inspired  sympathy,  or  governed  senates  by  its  burning  eloquence,  has 
found  a  medium  for  its  expression,  to  which,  in  spite  of  your  prejudices 
and  your  evil  passions,  you  have  been  obliged  to  bow.  The  ear,  the  voice, 
the  fancy  teeming  with  combination — the  imagination  fervent  with  picture 
and  emotion,  that  came  from  Caucasus,  and  which  we  have  preserved 
unpolluted — have  endowed  us  with  almost  the  exclusive  privilege  of  music: 
that  science  of  harmonious  sounds  which  the  ancients  recognized  as  most 
divine,  and  deified  in  the  person  of  their  most  beautiful  creation. 


zmm 


Till':  POET'S  SONG  TO  UTS  WIFE. 


nARRY   CORNWALL. 


■fe 

(;W!0\V  many  Hurnmors,  lovft, 

Iliivo  I  hf-en  thine? 

How  many  'lays,  thou  dove, 

Hast  thou  heen  mino? 
Timfi,  like  the  winged  wind 

Winn  't  hcndfi  tho  flowers, 
H;ith  h:ft  no  mark  h'hind. 

To  count  tlif  hours! 


i 


Soino  weight  of  thought,  thougli 

On  thoo  ho  Ifiaves  ; 
Some  lines  of  care  rounil  both 

Perhaps  ho  weaves ; 
Some  fears, — a  soft  regret 

For  joy  searce  known  ; 
•Sweet  looks  we  lialf  forget;— 

All  else  is  flown  I 


'>:vt&. 


THE  WONDERFUL  ONE-HOSS  SHAY. 


69 


Ah  !     With  what  thankless  heart 

I  mourn  and  sing ! 
Look,  where  our  children  start, 

Like  sudden  spring ! 


With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low 
Like  a  pleasant  rhyme. 

They  tell  how  much  I  owe 
To  thee  and  time ! 


SHALL  WE  KNOW  EACH. OTHER  THERE? 


ANONYMOUS. 


[TEN  we  hear  the  music  ringing 

In  the  bright  celestial  dome — 
When  sweet  angels'  voices,  singing. 

Gladly  bid  us  welcome  home 
To  the  land  of  ancient  story, 

Where  the  spirit  knows  no  care ; 
In  that  land  of  life  and  glory — 

Shall  we  know  each  other  there  ? 


When  the  holy  angels  meet  us, 

As  we  go  to  join  their  band, 
Shall  we  know  the  friends  that  greet  us 

In  that  glorious  spirit  land  ? 
Shall  we  see  the  same  eyes  shining 

On  us  as  in  days  of  yore  ? 
Shall  we  feel  the  dear  arms  twining 

Fondly  round  us  as  before  ? 


Yes,  my  earth- worn  soul  rejoices, 

And  my  weary  heart  grows  light. 
For  the  thrilling  angel  voices 

And  the  angel  faces  bright, 
That  shall  welcome  us  in  heaven. 

Are  the  loved  of  long  ago ; 
And  to  them  'tis  kindly  given 

Thus  their  mortal  friends  to  know. 

Oh,  ye  weary,  sad,  and  tossed  ones, 
Droop  not,  faint  not  by  the  way  ! 

Ye  shall  join  the  loved  and  just  ones 
In  that  land  of  perfect  day. 

Harp-strings,  touched  by  angel  fingers, 
Murmured  in  my  raptured  ear  ; 

Evermore  their  sweet  song  lingers — 

"  We  shall  know  each  other  there." 


THE  WONDERFUL  ONE-HOSS  SHA  Y. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 


i?AVE  you  heard  of  the  wonderful     Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five, 


r?        one-boss  shay. 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it — Ah,  but 

stay, 
I'll  tell  you  what  happened,  with- 
out delaj' — 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits. 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that  I  say? 


Oeorgius  Secundus  was  then  aliv( 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when   Lisbon  town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-boss  shay. 

Now,  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 


THE  WONDERFUL  ONE-HOSS  SHAY. 


There  is  always,  somewhere,  a  weakest  spot — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill. 
In  panel  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 
In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace — lurking  still. 
Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without — 
And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  doesn't  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore — (as  Deacons  do. 
With  an  "  I  dew  vum  "  or  an  "I  tell  yeou  ") — 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'N'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun'; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn't  break 

daown  ; — 
"  Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  't's  mighty  plain 
That  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain 
'N'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
To  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak. 
That  couldn't  be  split,  nor  bent,  nor  broke — 
That  was  for  spokes,  and  floor,  and  sills ; 
He  sent  for  lancewood,  to  make  the  thills  ; 
The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest 

trees ; 
The  panels  of  white-wood,   that  cuts    like 

cheese. 
But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these ; 
The    hubs   from    logs  from    the    "Settler's 

ellum" — 
Last  of  its  timber — they  couldn't  sell  'em — 
Never  an  ax  had  seen  their  chips, 
And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips. 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-lips  ; 
Stop  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 
Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue; 
Thoroughbrace  bison  skin,  thick  and  wide; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide, 
Found  in  the  pit  where  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  ho   "  put  her  through." 
"There!"    said   the   Deacon,    "  uaow   t^hu'll 

dew!" 

Do  !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guesH 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  1<;hh  ! 

Colts  f?rew  horscH,  beards  turned  gray, 


Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away. 
Children    and    grandchildren — where    were 

they  ? 
But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay, 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  ! 

Eighteen  Hundred — it  came,  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred,  increased  by  ten — 
"  Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came— 
Running  as  usual — much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive ; 
And  then  came  fifty — and  Fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact  there's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large ; 

Take  it. — You're  welcome. — no  extra  charge.) 

First  of  November — the  Earthquake-day — 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-ho.ss  shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay — 

But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say, 

There  couldn't  be — for  the  Deacon's  art 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 

That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one  to  start 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the 

thills. 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back  crossbar  as  strong  as  tlie  for«, 
And  spring,  and  axle,  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  bo  worn  out! 

First  of  November,    'Fifty-fivo! 
This  morning  the  jiarson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  got  out  of  the  way  ! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailoil,  ewe-necked  bay. 
"  Iluddup  I"  said  the  parson. — Ofl"  went  they. 

The  par.son  was  working  his  Sunday  text — 
Had  got  to  Ji/ihl;/,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the — Moses — was  coming  next. 
All  at  onco  the  horae  stood  still, 


MR.  PICKWICK  IN  A  DILEMMA. 


71 


Ciose  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 

First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock. 
At    half-past    nine    by   the     meet'n'-house 

clock — 
Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock ! 

What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 


When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground) 
You  .see,  of  course,  if  you're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once — 
All  at  once,  and  nothing  first — 
Just  as  the  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 
End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
i  Logic  IS  Logic.     That's  all  I  say. 


AMERICAN  ARISTOCRACY. 


JOHN   G.    SAXE. 


5^^I^F  all  the  notable  things  on  earth, 
W^^Ml  The  queerest  one  is  pride  of  birth 
^gj^  Among  our  "  fierce  democracy  !" 

&[hi  A  bridge  across  a  hundred  years, 
^     Without  a  prop  to  save  it  from  sneers. 
Not  even  a  couple  of  rotten  peers, — 
A  thing  for  laughter,  fleers,  and  jeers, 
Is  American  aristocracy ! 

English  and  Irish,  French  and  Spanish, 
Germans,  Italians,  Dutch  and  Danish, 
Crossing  their  veins  until  they  vanish 
In  one  conglomeration! 


So  subtle  a  tangle  of  blood,  indeed, 
No  Heraldry  Harvey  will  ever  succeed 
In  finding  the  circulation. 

Depend  upon  it,  my  snobbish  friend, 
Your  family  thread  you  can't  ascend, 
Without  good  reason  to  apprehend 
You  may  find  it  waxed,  at  the  farther 
end, 

By  some  plebeian  vocation  : 
Or,  worse  than  that,  your  boasted  line 
May  end  in  a  loop  of  stronger  twine, 

That  plagued  some  worthy  relation ! 


MR.  PICKWICK  IK  A  DILEMMA. 


CHARLES   DICKENS. 


|R.  PICKWICK'S  apartments  in  Goswell  street,  although  on  a 
limited  scale,  were  not  only  of  a  very  neat  and  comfortable 
description,  but  peculiarly  adapted  for  the  residence  of  a  man  of 
his  genius  and  observation.  His  sitting-room  was  the  first  floor 
front,  his  bed-room  was  the  second  floor  front ;  and  thus,  whether 


72  MR.  PICKWICK  IN  A  DILEMMA. 

he  was  sitting  at  his  desk  in  the  parlor,  or  standing  before  the  dressing- 
glass  in  his  dormitory,  he  had  an  equal  opportunity  of  contemplating 
human  nature  in  all  the  numerous  phases  it  exhibits,  in  that  not  more 
populous  than  popular  thoroughfare. 

His  landlady,  Mrs.  Bardell — the  reUct  and  sole  executrix  of  a  de- 
ceased custom-house  officer — was  a  comely  woman  of  bustUng  manners 
and  agreeable  appearance,  with  a  natural  genius  for  cooking,  improved  by 
study  and  long  practice  into  an  exquisite  talent.  There  were  no  children, 
no  servants,  no  fowls.  The  only  other  inmates  of  the  house  were  a  large 
man  and  a  small  boy ;  the  first  a  lodger,  the  second  a  production  of  Mrs. 
Bardell's.  The  large  man  was  always  at  home  precisely  at  ten  o'clock  at 
night,  at  which  hour  he  regularly  condensed  himself  into  the  limits  of  a 
dwarfish  French  bedstead  in  the  back  parlor  ;  and  the' infantine  sports  and 
gymnastic  exercises  of  Master  Bardell  were  exclusively  confined  to  the 
neighboring  pavements  and  gutters.  Cleanliness  and  quiet  reigned 
throughout  the  house ;  and  in  it  Mr.  Pickwick's  will  was  law. 

To  any  one  acquainted  with  these  points  of  the  domestic  economy  of 
the  establishment,  and  conversant  with  the  admirable  regulation  of 
Mr.  Pickwick's  mind,  his  appearance  and  behaviour,  on  the  morning 
previous  to  that  which  had  been  fixed  upon  for  the  journey  to  Eatansville, 
would  have  been  most  mysterious  and  unaccountable.  He  paced  the  room 
to  and  fro  with  hurried  steps,  popped  his  head  out  of  the  window  at  inter- 
vals of  about  three  minutes  each,  constantly  referred  to  his  watch,  and 
exhibited  many  other  manifestations  of  impatience,  very  unusual  with 
him.  It  was  evident  that  something  of  great  importance  was  in  contem- 
plation ;  but  what  that  something  was,  not  even  Mrs.  Bardell  herself  had 
been  able  to  discover. 

"  Mrs.  Bardell,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  at  last,  as  that  amiable  female 
approached  the  termination  of  a  prolonged  dusting  of  the  apartment. 
"  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell.  "  Your  little  boy  is  a  very  long  time  gone."  "  Why, 
it's  a  good  long  way  to  the  Borough,  sir,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Bardell. 
"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "very  true;  so  it  is."  Mr.  Pickwick  relapsed 
into  silence,  and  Mrs.  Bardell  resumed  her  dusting. 

"  Mrs.  Bardell,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  at  the  expiration  of  a  few 
minutes.  "  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell  again.  "  Do  you  think  it's  a  much 
greater  expense  to  keep  two  people,  than  to  keep  one  ?"  "  La,  Mr,  Pick- 
wick," said  Mrs.  Bardell,  coloring  uj)  to  the  very  bordor  of  her  cap,  a-s  she 
fancied  slie  observed  a  species  of  matrimonial  twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  hor 
lodger;  "La,  Mr.  Pickwick,  what  a  question!"  "Well,  but  do  you?" 
inquired  Mr.  Pickwick.     "  That  depends,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  approaching 


MR.  PICKWICK  IN  A  DILEiMMA.  73 

t 
the  duster  very  near  to  Mr.  Pickwick's  elbow,  which  was  planted  on  the 

table ;  "  that  depends  a  good  deal  upon  the  person,  you  know,  Mr.  Pick- 
wick ;  and  whether  it's  a  saving  and  careful  person,  sir."  "  That's  very 
true,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick ;  "  but  the  person  I  have  in  my  eye  (here  he 
looked  very  hard  at  Mrs.  Bardell)  I  think  possesses  these  qualities ;  and 
has,  moreover,  a  considerable  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  a  great  deal  of 
sharpness,  Mrs.  Bardell,  which  may  be  of  material  use  to  me." 

"  La,  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  the  crimson  rising  to  her  cap- 
border  again,  "  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  growing  energetic,  as  was  his 
woat  in  speaking  of  a  subject  which  interested  him.  "  I  do  indeed ;  and 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs.  Bardell,  I  have  made  up  my  mind."  "  Dear 
me,  sir,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell.  "  You'll  think  it  not  very  strange  now," 
said  the  amiable  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  a  good-humored  glance  at  his  com- 
panion, "  that  I  never  consulted  you  about  this  matter,  and  never  men- 
tioned it,  till  I  sent  your  little  boy  out  this  morning — eh  ?" 

Mrs.  Bardell  could  only  reply  by  a  look.  She  had  long  worshipped 
Mr.  Pickwick  at  a  distance,  but  here  she  was,  all  at  once,  raised  to  a 
pinnacle  to  which  her  wildest  and  most  extravagant  hopes  had  never  dared 
to  aspire.  Mr.  Pickwick  was  going  to  propose — a  deliberate  plan,  too — 
sent  her  little  boy  to  the  Borough  to  get  him  out  of  the  way — how 
thoughtful — how  considerate ! — "  Well,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  what  do  you 
think  ?"  "  Oh,  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  trembling  with  agitation 
"you're  very  kind,  sir."  "It  will  save  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  won't 
it  ?"  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  "  Oh,  I  never  thought  anything  of  the  trouble, 
sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Bardell;  "and  of  course,  I  should  take  more  trouble  to 
please  you  then  than  ever ;  but  it  is  so  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Pickwick,  to  have 
so  much  consideration  for  my  loneliness." 

"Ah  to  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick;  "  I  never  thought  of  that. 
"Wlien  I  am  in  town,  you'll  always  have  somebody  to  sit  with  you.  To 
be  sure,  so  you  will."  "Pm  sure  I  ought  to  be  a  very  happy  woman," 
said  Mrs.  Bardell.  "  And  your  little  boy — "  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  "  Bless 
his  heart,"  interposed  Mrs.  Bardell,  with  a  maternal  sob.  "  He,  too,  will 
have  a  companion,"  resumed  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  a  lively  one,  who'll  teach  him, 
ril  be  bound,  more  tricks  in  a  week,  than  he  would  ever  learn,  in  a  year." 
And  Mr.  Pickwick  smiled  placidly. 

"  Oh,  you  dear — "  said  Mrs.  Bardell.  Mr.  Pickwick  started.  "  Oh 
you  kind,  good,  playful  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell ;  and  without  more  ado, 
she  rose  from  her  chair,  and  flung  her  arms  round  Mr.  Pickwick's  neck, 
with  a  cataract  of  tears  and  a  chorus  of  sobs.  '•'  Bless  my  soul,"  cried  the 
astonished  Mr.  Pickwick; — "Mrs,  Bardell,  my  good  woman — deai*  me, 


74  MR.  PICKWICK  IN  A  DILEMMA. 

what  a  situation — pray  consider.  Mrs.  Bardell,  don't — if  anybody  should 
come—"  "Oh,  let  them  come,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell,  frantically; 
"I'll  never  leave  you — dear,  kind,  good,  soul;"  and  with  these  words, 
Mrs.  Bardell  clung  the  tighter, 

"  Mercy  upon  me,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  struggling  violently,  "  I  hear 
somebody  coming  up  the  stairs.  Don't,  don't,  there's  a  good  creaturej 
don't."  But  entreaty  and  remonstrance  were  alike  unavailing  ;  for  Mrs. 
Bardell  had  fainted  in  Mr.  Pickwick's  arms ;  and  before  ho  could  gain 
time  to  deposit  her  on  a  chair.  Master  Bardell  entered  the  room,  ushering 
in  Mr,  Tupman,  Mr.  Winkle,  and  Mr,  Snodgrass.  Mr.  Pickwick  was 
struck  motionless  and  speechless.  He  stood  with  his  lovely  burden  in  his 
arms,  gazing  vacantly  on  the  countenances  of  his  friends,  without  the 
slightest  attempt  at  recognition  or  explanation.  Tliey,  in  their  turn, 
stared  at  him ;  and  Master  Bardell,  in  his  turn,  stared  at  everybody. 

The  astonishment  of  the  Pickwickians  was  so  absorbing,  and  the 
perplexity  of  Mr.  Pickwick  was  so  extreme,  that  they  might  have 
remained  in  exactly  the  same  relative  situation  until  the  suspended  anima- 
tion of  the  lady  was  restored,  had  it  not  been  for  a  most  beautiful  and 
touching  expression  of  filial  affection  on  the  part  of  her  youthful  son. 
Clad  in  a  tight  suit  of  corduroy,  spangled  with  brass  buttons  of  a  very 
considerable  size,  he  at  first  stood  at  the  door  astounded  and  uncertain ; 
but  by  degrees,  the  impression  that  his  mother  must  have  suffered  some 
personal  damage,  pervaded  his  partially  developed  mind,  and  considering 
Mr.  Pickwick  the  aggressor,  he  set  up  an  appalling  and  semi-earthly  kind 
of  howling,  and  butting  forward,  with  his  head,  commenced  assailing  that 
immortal  gentleman  about  the  back  and  legs,  with  such  blows  and  pinches 
as  the  strength  of  his  arm,  and  the  violence  of  his  excitement  allowed. 

"  Take  this  little  villain  away,"  said  the  agonized  Mr.  Pickwick, 
"he's  mad."  "What  is  the  matter?"  said  the  three  tongue-tied  Pick- 
wickians, "  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  pettishly.  "  Take  away 
the  boy — (here  Mr,  Winkle  carried  the  interesting  boy,  screaming  and 
struggling,  to  the  farther  end  of  the  apartment.)  Now  help  me  to  lead 
this  woman  down  stairs.  "  Oh,  Pm  better  now,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell, 
faintly.  "  Lot  me  lead  you  down  stairs,"  said  the  ever  gallant  Mr.  Tup- 
man,  "  Thank  you,  sir — thank  you  ;"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bard(;l],  hysterically. 
And  down  stairs  she  was  led,  accordingly, accompaiiir(l  l,y  Ikt  afFoctionate 
son. 

"  T  cannot  conceive  " — said  Mr.  Pickwick,  when  his  friiuid  inlurned — 
"  I  cannot  conceive  what  has  been  the  matter  with  that  woman.  T  had 
merely  announced   to  her  my  int^'ntion   of  keeping  a  man-servant,  when 


iiilt..'jlJ  fiiilini 


PRAISE  OF  THE  SEA.  75 


she  fell  into  the  extraordinary  paroxysm  in  which  you  found  her.  Very 
extraordinary  thing."  "  Very,"  said  his  three  friends.  "  Placed  me  in 
such  an  extremely  awkward  situation,"  continued  Mr.  Pickwick.  "  Very;" 
wa^  the  reply  of  his  followers,  as  they  coughed  slightly,  and  looked 
dubiously  at  each  other. 

This  behaviour  was  not  lost  upon  Mr.  Pickwick.  He  remarked  their 
incredulity.  They  evidently  suspected  him. — "There  is  a  man  in  the 
passage  now,"  said  Mr.  Tupman.  "  It's  the  man  that  I  spoke  to  you 
about,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  I  sent  for  him  to  the  Borough  this  morning. 
Have  the  goodness  to  call  him  up,  Snodgrass." 


PRAISE  OF  THE  SEA. 


Ar 


SAMUEL    PURCHAS. 


God  hath  combined  the  sea  and  land  into  one  globe,  so  their  joint 
(Combination  and  mutual  assistance  is  necessary  to  secular  happi- 
'*^^°  ness  and  glory.  The  sea  covereth  one-half  of  this  patrimony  of 
man,  whereof  God  set  him  in  possession  when  he  said,  "  Replenish 
the  earth,  and  subdue  it,  and  have  dominion  over  the  fish  of  the 
sea,  and  over  the  fowl  of  the  air,  and  over  eveiy  living  thing  that  moveth 
upon  the  earth."  ....  Thus  should  man  at  once  lose  half  his  inheritance, 
if  the  art  of  navigation  did  not  enable  him  to  manage  this  untamed  beast, 
and  with  the  bridle  of  the  winds  and  saddle  of  his  shipping  to  make  him 
serviceable.  Now  for  the  services  of  the  sea,  they  are  innumerable  :  it  is 
the  great  purveyor  of  the  world's  commodities  to  our  use;  conveyer  of  the 
excess  of  rivers ;  uniter,  by  traffic,  of  all  nations  :  it  presents  the  eye  with 
diversified  colors  and  motions,  and  is,  as  it  were,  with  rich  brooches, 
adorned  with  various  islands.  It  is  an  open  field  for  merchandise  in  peace  ; 
a  pitched  field  for  the  most  dreadful  fights  of  war ;  yields  diversity  of  fish 
and  fowl  for  diet ;  materials  for  wealth,  medicine  for  health,  simples  for 
medicines,  pearls,  and  other  jewels  for  ornament;  amber  and  ambergris 
for  delight ;  "  the  wonders  of  the  Lord  in  the  deep  "  for  instruction,  variety 
of  creatures  for  use,  multiplicity  of  natures  for  contemplation,  diversity  of 
accidents  for  admiration,  compendiousness  to  the  way,  to  full  bodies  health- 
ful evacuation,  to  the  thirsty  earth  fertile  moisture,  to  distant  friends  pleasant 
meeting,  to  weary  persons  delightful  refreshing,  to  studious  and  religious 
minds  a  map  of  knowledge,  mystery  of  temperance,  exercise  of  continence ; 


76 


PRAISE  OF  THE  SEA. 


school  of  praj^er,  meditation,  devotion  and   sobriety ;  refuge  to  the  dis- 
tressed, portage  to  the  merchant,  passage  to  the  traveller,  customs  to  the 


HAIUtlKUS 


prince,  springs,  lakes,  rivers  to   the  earth  ;  it  halli  on    it   tempests  ;uid 
calms  to  chastise  the   sins,   to  exercise    the    f.iitli    of  seamen  ;  manifold 


WAITING  BY  THE  GATE. 


77 


affections  in  itself,  to  affect  and  stupef)''  the  subtlest  philosopher  ;  sustaineth 
movable  fortresses  for  the  soldier ;  maintaineth  (as  in  our  island)  a  wall 
of  defence  and  watery  garrison  to  guard  the  state  ;  entertains  the  sun  with 
Tapors,  the  moon  with  obsequiousness,  the  stars  also  with  a  natural  looking- 
glass,  the  sky  with  clouds,  the  air  with  teraperateness,  the  soil  with  sup- 
pleness, the  rivers  with  tides,  the  hills  with  moisture,  the  valleys  with 
fertility  :  containeth  most  diversified  matter  for  meteors,  most  multiform 
shapes,  most  various,  numerous  kinds,  most  immense,  difformed,  deformed, 
unformed  monsters ;  once  (for  why  should  I  longer  detain  you  ?)  the  sea 
yields  action  to  the  body,  meditation  to  the  mind,  the  world  to  the  world, 
841  parts  thereof  to  each  part,  by  this  art  of  arts,  navigation. 


WAITING  BY  THE  GATE. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT. 


^J^^ESIDE  the  massive  gateway  built  up 
in  years  gone  by, 
^   Upon  whose  top  the  clouds  in  eter- 
nal shadow  lie, 
While  streams  the  evening  sunshine 

on  the  quiet  wood  and  lea, 
I  stand  and  calmly  wait  until  the 
hinges  turn  for  me. 

The   tree   tops    faintly   rustle   beneath   the 

breeze's  flight, 
A  soft  soothing  sound,  yet  it  whispers  of  the 

night ; 
I  hear  the  woodthrush  piping  one  mellow 

descant  more, 
And  scent  the  flowers  that  blow  when  the 

heat  of  day  is  o'er. 

Behold  the  portals  open  and  o'er  the  thres- 
hold, now, 

There  steps  a  wearied  one  \\'\ih.  pale  and  fur- 
rowed brow ; 

His  count  of  years  is  full,  his  alloted  task  is 
wrought ; 

He  passes  to  his  rest  from  a  place  that  needs 
him  not. 

In.  sadness,  then,  I  ponder  how  quickly  fleets 
the  hour 


Of  human  strength  and  action,  man'af  cour- 
age and  his  power. 

I  Kuse  while  still  the  woodthrush  sings 
down  the  golden  day, 

And  as  I  look  and  listen  the  sadness  wears 
away. 

Again  the  hinges  turn,  and  a  youth,  depart- 
ing throws 

A  look  of  longing  backward,  and  sorrowfully 
goes; 

A  blooming  maid,  unbinding  the  roses  from 
her  hair. 

Moves  wonderfully  away  from  amid  the 
j'oung  and  fair. 

Oh,  glory  of  our  race  that  so  suddenly  de- 
cays ! 

Oh,  crimson  flush  of  morning,  that  darkens 
as  we  gaze ! 

Oh,  breath  of  summer  blossoms  that  on  the 
restless  air 

Scatters  a  moment's  sweetness  and  flies  we 
know  not  where. 

I  grieve  for  life's  bright  promise,  just  shown 
and  then  withdrawn; 

But  still  the  sun  shines  round  me ;  the  even- 
ing birds  sing  on ; 


THE  HOUSEKEEPER'S  SOLILOQUY. 


And  I  again  am  soothed,  and  beside  the  an- 
cient gate, 

In  this  soft  evening  sunlight,  I  calmly  stand 
and  wait. 

Once  more  the  gates  are  opened,  an  infant 

group  go  out. 
The  sweet  smile  quenched  forever,  and  stilled 

the  sprightly  shout. 
Oh,  frail,  frail  tree  of  life,  that  upon  the 

greensward  strews 
Its  fair  young  buds  unopened,  with  every 

wind  that  blows ! 

So  from  every  region,  so  enter  side  by  side. 
The  strong  and  faint  of  spirit,  the  meek  and 

men  of  pride. 
Steps  of  earth's  greatest,  mightiest,  between 

those  pillars  gray, 


And  prints  of  little  feet,  that  mark  the  dust 
away. 

And    some  approach  the    threshold  whose 

looks  are  blank  with  fear, 
And  some  whose  temples  brighten  with  joy 

are  drawing  near, 
As  if  they  saw  dear  faces,  and  caught  the 

gracious  eye 
Of  Him,  the  Sinless  Teacher,  who  came  for 

us  to  die. 
I  mark  the  joy,  the  terrors;  yet  these,  with- 
in my  heart. 
Can  neither  wake  the  dread  nor  the  longing 

to  depart ; 
And,  in  the  sunshine  streaming  of  quiet  wood 

and  lea, 
I  stand  and  calmly  wait  until  the  hinges 

turn  for  me. 


THE  HOUSEKEEPERS  SOLILOQUY. 


MRS.    F.    D.  GAGE. 


(•;* 


FARE'S  a  big  washing  to  be  done — 
One  pair  of  hands  to  do  it — 
3  Sheets,  shirts  and  stockings,  coats 
and  pants, 
How  will  I  e'er  get  through  it  ? 


^  Dinner  to  get  for  six  or  more. 

No  loaf  left  o'er  from  Sunday  ; 
And  baby  cross  as  he  can  live — 
He's  always  so  on  Monday. 

'Tifl  time  the  meat  was  in  the  pot, 
The  bread  was  worked  for  baking, 

The  clothes  were  taken  from  thf;  boil — 
Oh  dear  !  the  baby's  waking  ! 

Hu.th,  baby  dear!  there,  hush-sh-sh! 

I  wish  he'd  sleep  a  little, 
'Till  I  could  run  and  get  some  wood, 

To  hurry  up  the  kettle. 

Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !  if  P conies  home. 

And  finds  thingn  in  this  pother, 

H';'!!  just  be^in  and  t<tll  mo  all 
About  hm  tidy  mother  I 


How  nice  her  kitchen  used  to  be, 

Her  dinner  always  ready 
Exactly  when  the  noon-bell  rang — 

Hush,  hush,  dear  little  Freddy! 

And  then  will  come  some  hasty  words, 
Right  out  before  I'm  thinking — 

They  say  that  hasty  words  from  wives 
Set  sober  men  to  drinking. 

Now  is  not  that  a  great  idea, 

Tliat  men  should  take  to  sinning, 

Because  a  weary,  half  sick  wife. 
Can't  always  smile  so  winning? 

When  I  was  young  I  used  to  earn 

My  living  witliout  trouble, 
Had  clothes  and  poc-ket  money,  too, 

And  hours  of  leisure  double, 

I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  fate. 
When  I,  a-lasB  !  was  courted — 
Wife,  mother,  nurse,  Roamstress,  cook,  house- 

kef'[)CT,  chambermaid,  laundress,  dairywo- 

man,  and  Hcrub  generally,  doing  the  work 

of  six, 

Vox  the  sake  of  being  Kiipported  I 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 


7S 


SKIPPER   IRESON'S  RIDE. 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


\'F  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme, — 
^Jq    On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 

Or  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass, 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  hack, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak, — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's  out  from  Marblehead ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart. 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  adroop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young. 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  un  the  rocky  lane. 
6 


Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain : 
"  Here's  Find  Oirson,  for  his  horrd  horrt 
Torr'd  an  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt, 
By  the  women  o'  Marble'ead .'" 

Wrinkled  scolds,  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips. 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair. 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and   fish-horns 

twang. 
Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang : 

"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torrd  an'  futhered  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Marble'ead  ! 

Small  pity  for  him! — he  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur  Baj', — 


80 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 


Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  towns-people  on  her  deck ! 
"  Lay  by  !  lay  by  !"  they  called  to  him, 
Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim  ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again  !" 
A.nd  off  he  sailed  through  fog  and  rain  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart. 


Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 

Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed, 

Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 

Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim. 

Like  an  Indian  idol,  glum  and  grim. 

Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear, 


Tarred   and  feathered   and    carried  in   a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea, — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be ! 
\^Tiat  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  crnel  cajitain  who  sailed  away  ?  — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart. 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Through  tlie  street,  on  either  side. 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide ; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  to  the  fish-horn's  bray, 
Seaworn  grand.MJres,  crififde  bound. 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 
And  cracked  with  ctirscs  the  hoarse  refrain  : 
•*  Here's  Find  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  rorr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Marble'ead  I" 


Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near  : 

"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Marble'ead  ! 

"  Hear  me,  neighbors  !"  at  last  he  cried, — 
"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin, 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within  ? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me, — I  onl}'  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead  1'" 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart. 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marlilohead  ! 

The  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "Oodhas  touclied  him!  why  ahouldwe?" 
Said  an  old  wife,  mourning  her  only  son, 
"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether,  and  let  him  run  !" 
So  with  soft  relentings,  and  rud(>  (•x<uso. 
Half  S'orn,  half  ])ity,  they  cut  him  loose. 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  an<l  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  lieart. 
Tarred  and  ff^atheroil  and  narried  in  a  carl, 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  I 


PULPIT  ORATORY.  31 


P  ULPIT  ORA  TOR  Y. 


DANIEL    DOUGHERTY. 


pE  daily  work  of  the  pulpit  is  not  to  convince  the  judgment,  but  to 
touch  the  heart.  We  all  know  it  is  our  duty  to  love  our  Creator 
and  serve  him,  but  the  aim  is  to  make  mankind  do  it.  It  is  not 
enough  to  convert  our  belief  to  Christianity,  but  to  turn  our 
souls  towards  God.  Therefore  the  preacher  will  find  in  the 
armory  of  the  feelings  the  weapons  with  which  to  defend  against  sin, 
assail  Satan  and  achieve  the  victory,  the  fruits  of  which  shall  never  perish. 
And  oh,  how  infinite  the  variety^  how  inexhaustible  the  resources,  of  this 
armory !  how  irresistible  the  weapons,  when  grasped  by  the  hand  of  a 
master  ! 

Every  passion  of  the  human  heart,  every  sentiment  that  sways  the 
soul,  every  action  or  character  in  the  vast  realms  of  history  or  the  bound- 
less world  about  us,  the  preacher  can  summon  obedient  to  his  command. 
He  can  paint  in  vivid  colors  the  last  hours  of  the  just  man — all  his  temp- 
tations and  trials  over,  he  smilingly  sinks  to  sleep,  to  awake  amid  the 
glories  of  the  eternal  morn.  He  can  tell  the  pampered  man  of  ill-gotten 
gold  that  the  hour  draws  nigh  when  he  shall  feel  the  cold  and  clammy 
hand  of  Death,  and  that  all  his  wealth  cannot  buy  him  from  the  worm. 
He  can  drag  before  his  hearers  the  slimy  hypocrite,  tear  from  his  heart 
his  secret  crimes  and  expose  his  damnable  villainy  to  the  gaze  of  all.  He 
can  appeal  to  the  purest  promptings  of  the  Christian  heart,  the  love  of  God 
and  hatred  of  sin.  He  can  depict  the  stupendous  and  appalling  truth 
that  the  Saviour  from  the  highest  throne  in  heaven  descended,  and  here, 
on  earth,  assumed  the  form  of  fallen  man,  and  for  us  died  on  the  cross 
like  a  malefactor.  He  can  startle  and  awe-strike  his  hearers  as  he  descants 
on  the  terrible  justice  of  the  Almighty  in  hurling  from  heaven  Lucifer 
and  his  apostate  legions ;  in  letting  loose  the  mighty  waters  until  they 
swallowed  the  wide  earth  and  every  living  thing,  burying  the  highest 
mountains  in  the  universal  deluge,  shadows  of  the  coming  of  that  awful 
day  for  which  all  other  days  are  made.  He  can  roll  back  the  sky  as  a 
scroll,  and,  ascending  to  heaven,  picture  its  ecstatic  joys,  where  seraphic 
voices  tuned  in  celestial  harmony  sing  their  canticles  of  praise.  He  can 
dive  into  the  depths  of  hell  and  describe  the  howling  and  gnashing  of  teeth 
of  the  damned,  chained  in  its  flaming  caverns,  ever  burning  yet  never  con- 
sumed. He  can,  in  a  word,  in  imagination,  assume  the  sublime  attributes 
of  the  Dei'y,  and,  as  the  supreme  mercy  and  goodness,  make   tears  of 


82 


THE  WIDOW  BEDOTT'S  POETRY. 


contrition  start  and  stream  from  every  eye ;  or,  armed  with  the  dread 
prerogatives  of  the  inexorable  judge,  with  the  hghtning  of  liis  wrath 
strike  unrepentant  souls  until  sinners  sink  on  their  knees  and  quail  as 
Felix  quailed  before  St.  Paul. 


BABY. 


GEORGE    MACDONALD. 


HERE  did    you  come   from,   baby      Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear  ? 


dear? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  here. 

Where  did  you  get  those   eyes   so 

blue? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 


VVhat  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle  and 

Bjiin? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 


I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and 

high? 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm  white 

rose? 
I  saw  something  better  than  any  one  knows. 

Whence  that  three-cornered  smile  of  bliss  ? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear? 
God  spoke  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands  ? 
Love  made  itself  into  bonds  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you   come,    you    darlinj:, 

things  ? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  be  you  ? 
God  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  liow  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear? 
God  thought  about  you,  and  so  I  am  here. 


TJl/'J  WIDOW  BEDOTTS  POETRY. 


F.    M.    WHITCIIER. 


^y^l^^S^ — }io  was  one  o'  the  best  men  that  ever  trod  shoe-leather,  husband 
"^^J^  was,  tliougli  Miss  Jinkins  says  (she  'twas  Poll  Bingham,)  fthe  says, 
■\'-^  i  I  never  found  it  out  till  after  he  died,  })ut  that's  tlu!  consarndost 
IL  lie  that  ever  was  told,  though  it's  jest  a  piece  with  everything  else 


THE  WIDOW  BEDOTTS  POETRY.  gg 


she  says  about  me.  I  guess  if  everybody  could  see  the  poitry  I  writ  to 
his  memory,  nobody  wouldn't  think  I  dident  set  store  by  him.  Want 
to  hear  it  ?  Well,  I'll  see  if  I  can  say  it ;  it  ginerally  affects  me  wonder- 
fully, seems  to  liarrer  up  my  feelin's  ;  but  I'll  try.  Dident  know  I  ever 
writ  poitry  ?  How  you  talk  !  used  to  make  lots  on't ;  haint  so  much  late 
years.  I  remember  once  when  Parson  Potter  had  a  bee,  I  sent  him  an 
amazin'  great  cheeze,  and  writ  a  piece  o'  poitry,  and  pasted  on  top  on't 
It  says  : 

Teach  him  for  to  proclaim 
Salvation  to  the  folks ; 

No  occasion  give  for  any  blame, 
Nor  wicked  people's  jokes. 

And  so  it  goes  on,  but  I  guess  I  won't  stop  to  say  the  rest  on't  now,  seein' 
there's  seven  and  forty  verses. 

Parson  Potter  and  his  wife  was  wonderfully  pleased  with  it ;  used  to 
sing  it  to  the  tune  o'  Haddem.  But  I  was  gwine  to  tell  the  one  I  made 
in  relation  to  husband ;  it  begins  as  follers  :  — 

He  never  jawed  in  all  his  life, 

He  never  was  onkind, — 
And  (tho'  I  say  it  that  was  his  wife) 

Such  men  you  seldom  find. 

(That's  as  true  as  the  Scripturs  ;  I  never  knowed  him  to  say  a  harsh  word.; 

I  never  changed  m}"-  single  lot, — 
I  thought  'twould  be  a  sin — 

(Though  widder  Jinkins  says  it's  because  I  never  had  a  chance.)  Now 
'tain't  for  me  to  say  whether  I  ever  had  a  numerous  number  o'  chances  or 
not,  but  there's  them  livin'  that  might  tell  if  they  wos  a  mind  to ;  why, 
this  poitry  was  writ  on  account  of  being  joked  about  Major  Coon,  three 
years  after  husband  died,  I  guess  the  ginerality  o'  folks  knows  what  was 
the  nature  o'  Major  Coon's  feelin's  towards  me,  tho'  his  wife  and  Miss 
Jinkins  does  say  I  tried  to  ketch  him.  The  fact  is.  Miss  Coon  feels  won- 
derfully cut  up  'cause  she  knows  the  Major  took  her  "  Jack  at  a  pinch," 
— seein'  he  couldent  get  such  as  he  wanted,  he  took  such  as  he  could  get, 
— but  I  goes  on  to  say — 

I  never  changed  my  single  lot, 

I  thought  'twould  be  a  sin, — 
For  I  thought  so  much  o'  Deacon  Bedott, 

I  never  got  married  agin. 


84  THE  WIDOW  BEDOTT'S  POETRY. 


If  ever  a  hasty  word  he  spoke, 

His  anger  dident  last, 
But  vanished  like  tobacker  smoke 

Afore  the  wintry  Wast. 

And  since  it  was  my  lot  to  be  • 

The  wife  of  such  a  man, 
Tell  the  men  that's  after  me 

To  ketch  me  if  they  can. 

If  I  was  sick  a  single  jot, 
He  called  the  doctor  in — 

That's  a  fact, — he  used  to  b^  scairt  to  death  if  anything  ailed  me.  Now 
only  jest  think, — widder  Jinkins  told  Sam  Pendergrasses  wife  (she  'twas 
Sally  Smith)  that  she  guessed  the  deacon  dident  set  no  great  store  by  me, 
or  he  wouldent  a  went  off  to  confrence  meetin'  when  I  was  down  with  the 
fever.  The  truth  is,  they  couldent  git  along  without  him  no  way.  Parson 
Potter  seldom  went  to  confrence  meetin',  and  when  he  wa'n't  there,  who 
was  ther'  pray  tell,  that  knowed  enough  to  take  the  lead  if  husband  dident 
do  it?  Deacon  Kenipe  hadent  no  gift,  and  Deacon  Crosby  hadent  no 
inclination,  and  so  it  all  come  onto  Deacon  Bedott, — and  he  was  always 
ready  and  willin'  to  do  his  duty,  you  know ;  as  long  as  he  was  able  to 
stand  on  his  legs  he  continued  to  go  to  confrence  meethi' ;  why,  I've 
knowed  that  man  to  go  when  he  couldent  scarcely  crawl  on  account  o'  the 
pain  in  the  spine  of  his  back. 

He  had  a  wonderful  gift,  and  he  wa'n't  a  man  to  keep  his  talents  hid 
up  in  a  napkin, — so  you  see  'twas  from  a  sense  o'  duty  he  went  when  I 
was  sick,  whatever  Miss  Jinkins  may  say  to  the  contrary.  But  where 
was  I  ?     Oh  !— 

If  I  was  sick  a  single  jot, 

He  calh'd  the  doctor  in — 
I  8ot  80  much  store  by  Deacon  Bedott 

I  never  got  married  ugin. 

A  wonderful  tender  heart  ho  had, 

That  felt  for  all  mankind, — 
It  made  him  feel  aniazin'  bad 

To  see  the  world  so  blind. 

Wliiflkey  and  rum  lie  t.-usted  not — 

That's  afi  true  as  the  Scriptur,-, — but  if  you'll  bfliovc  it,  Betsy,  Ann 
Kenipe  told  my  Mclissy  that  Miss  Jinkins  said  oih!  day  to  their  house. 


THE  WIDOW  BEDOTT'S  POETRY.  35 


how't  she'd  seen  Deacon  Bedott  high,  time  and  agin !  did  you  ever ! 
"Well,  I'm  glad  nobody  don't  pretend  to  mind  anything  site  says.  I've 
knowed  Poll  Bingham  from  a  gal,  and  she  never  knowcd  how  to  speak  the 
truth— besides  she  always  had  a  partikkeler  spite  against  husband  and  me, 
and  between  us  tew  I'll  tell  you  why  if  you  won't  mention  it,  for  I  make 
it  a  pint  never  to  say  nothin'  to  injure  nobody.  Well,  she  was  a  ravin'- 
distracted  after  my  husband  herself,  but  it's  a  long  story,  I'll  tell  you  about 
it  some  other  time,  and  then  you'll  know  why  widder  Jinkins  is  etarnally 
runnin'  me  down.  See, — where  had  I  got  to?  Oh,  I  remember 
now, — 

Whiskey  and  rum  he  tasted  not, — 

He  thought  it  was  a  sin, — 
I  thought  so  much  o'  Deacon  Bedott 

I  never  got  married  agin. 

But  now  he's  dead !  the  thought  is  killin'. 

My  grief  I  can't  control — 
He  never  left  a  single  shillin' 

His  widder  to  console. 

But  that  wa'n't  his  fault — he  was  so  out  0'  health  for  a  number  o'  year  afore 
he  died,  it  ain't  to  be  wondered  at  he  dident  lay  up  nothin' — however, 
it  dident  give  him  no  great  oneasiness, — he  never  cared  much  for  airthly 
riches,  though  Miss  Pendergrass  says  she  heard  Miss  Jinkins  say  Deacon 
Bedott  was  as  tight  as  the  skin  on  his  back, — begrudged  folks  their  vittals 
when  they  came  to  his  house !  did  you  ever  !  why,  he  was  the  hull-souldest 
man  I  ever  see  in  all  my  born  days.  If  I'd  such  a  husband  as  Bill  Jinkins 
was,  I'd  hold  my  tongue  about  my  neighbors'  husbands.  He  was  a  di'etful 
mean  man,  used  to  git  drunk  every  day  of  his  life,  and  he  had  an  awful  high 
temper, — used  to  swear  like  all  possest  when  he  got  mad, — and  I've  heard 
my  husband  say,  (and  he  wa'n't  a  man  that  ever  said  anything  that  wa'n't 
true), — I've  heard  him  say  Bill  Jinkins  would  cheat  his  own  father  out  of 
his  eye  teeth  if  he  had  a  chance.  Where  was  I?  Oh!  "  His  widder  to 
console," — tlicr  ain't  but  one  more  verse,  'tain't  a  very  lengthy  poim. 
When  Parson  Potter  read  it,  he  says  to  me,  says  he, — "  What  did  you  stop 
80  soon  for?" — but  Miss  Jinkins  told  the  Crosby's  sAe  thought  I'd  better 
a'  stopt  afore  I'd  begun, — she's  a  purty  critter  to  talk  so,  I  must  say.  I'd 
like  to  see  some  poitry  o'  hern, — I  guess  it  would  be  astonishin'  stuff;  and 
mor'n  all  that,  she  said  there  wa'n't  a  word  o'  truth  in  the  hull  on't, — said 
I  never  cared  tuppence  for  the  deacon.  What  an  everlastin'  lie  !  Why, 
when  he  died,  I  took  it  so  hard  I  went  deranged,  and  took  on  so  for  a  spelJ 


86 


BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE. 


they  was  afraid  they  should  have  to  send  me  to  a  Lunattic  Arsenal.     But 
that's  a  painful  subject,  I  won't  dwell  on't.     I  conclude  as  foUers : — 

I'll  never  change  my  single  lot, — 

I  think  'twould  be  a  sin, — 
The  inconsolable  widder  o'  Deacon  Bedott 

Don't  intend  to  get  married  agin. 

Excuse  my  cryin'  — my  feelin's  always  overcomes  me  so  when  I  say  that 
poitry — 0-0-0-0-0-0 ! 


BINGEN  ON  TEE  RHINE. 


CAROLINE    E.    NORTON. 


f^^  SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in 

■"^      Algiers, 

%"  There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing, 

there  was  dearth  of  woman's  tears  ; 

But   a    comrade  stood   beside  him, 

f  while  his  life-blood  ebbed  away. 

And  bent,  with  pitying  glances,  to  hear 
what  he  might  say. 
The  dying  soldier  faltered,  as  he  took  that 

comrade's  hand. 
And  he  said,  "I  never  more  shall  see  my 

own,  my  native  land ; 
Take  a  message,  and  a  token,  to  some  distant 

friends  of  mine, 
For  I  was  born  at  Bingen — at  Bingon  on  the 
Rliine. 

"  Tell  my  brothers   and  companions,    when 

they  meet  and  crowd  around 
To  hear  my  mournful  story  in  the  pleasant 

vineyard  ground. 
That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when 

the  day  was  done. 
Full  many  a  cor.'^o  lay  ghastly  pale,  beneath 

the  sotting  sun  ; 
And  mid.-<t  the  dead  and  dying  were  somo 

grown  old  in  wars, 
The  death-wound  on   their  j^allant  breastfl, 

the  last  of  many  scars  ; 
But  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld 

life's  morn  dofline: 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen — fair  Bingen 

on  the  Rhine  I 


"  Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  sons  shall 

comfort  her  old  age, 
And  I  was  aye  a  truant  bird,  that  thought 

his  home  a  cage  ; 
For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a 

child 
My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of 

struggles  fierce  and  wild  ; 
And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his 

scanty  hoard, 
I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would  but  kept 

my  father's  sword. 
And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the 

bright  light  used  to  shine, 
On  the  cottage-wall  at  Bingon — calm  Bingen 

on  the  Rhine  J 

"  Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  mo,  and  sob 

with  drooping  head. 
When  the  troops  come  marching  home  again, 

with  ghul  gallant  tread  ; 
But  to  look  upon  tliem  proudly,  with  a  calm 

and  steadfast  eye, 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier  too,  and  not 

afraid  to  die ; 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  lovo,  1  ask  hor  in 

my  name 
To  listen   to  liiin  kindly,  without  regret  or 

shame ; 
And  to  bang  the  old  sword  in  '\\»  place  (my 

father's  sword  and  mine,) 
For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen— dear  Bingen 

on  the  Rhino  I 


SONG  OF  THE  DECANTER. 


87 


"  There's  another,  not  a  sister  ;  in  the  happy 

days  gone  by, 
You'd  have  known   her  by  the  merriment 

that  sparkled  in  her  eye  ; 
Too  innocent  for  coquetry, — too  fond  for  idle 

scorning,— 
Oh!  friend,  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes 

sometimes  heaviest  mourning! 

Tell  her  the  last  night  of  n\y  life  (for  ere  the 
moon  be  risen. 

My  body  will  be  out  of  pain — my  soul  be  out 
of  prison,) 

I  dreameJl  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the  yel- 
low sunlight  shine 

On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen— fair  Bin- 
gen  on  the  Rhine ! 

"  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along — I  heard, 

or  seemed  to  hear, 
The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus 

sweet  and  clear  ; 
And  down  the  pleasant   river,  and  up  the 

slanting  hill, 
The   echoing   chorus  sounded,  through   the 

evening  calm  and  still; 
And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as  we 

passed,  with  friendly  talk, 
Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well 

remembered  walk. 
And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly 

in  cine : 
But  we'll  meet  no  more  at  Bingen — loved 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine !" 

His  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse  —  his  grasp 

was  childish  weak, — 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look, — he  sighed  and 

ceased  to  speak: 
ills  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark 

of  life  had  fled ! 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion,  in  a  foreign  land — 

was  dead ! 
A.nd  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly 

she  looked  down 
Dn  the  red  sand   of  the  battle-field  with 

bloody  corses  strown ; 
STes,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale 

light  seemed  to  shine, 
hs  Jt  shone  on  distant  Bingen — fair  Bingen 

on  the  Rhine  1 


80NG  OF  THE  DECANTER. 


There  was  an  old  decanter, 
and    ita    mouth     was    gaping 
wide ;   the  rosy  wine 
had  ebbed  away 
and  left 
its  crys- 
tal side ; 
and  the  wind 
went  hnmming, 
humming; 
up  and 
down  the 
sides  it  flew, 
and  through  the 
reed-like, 
hollow  neck 
the  wildest  notes  it 
blew.     I  placed  it  in  the 
window,  where  the  blast  was 
blowing  free,  and  fancied  that  ita 
pale  mouth  sang  the  queerest  strains 
to  me.      "  They  tell  me — puny  con- 
querors ! — the  Plague  has  slain  his  ten, 
and   War  his  hundred  thousands  of  the 
very  best  of  men  ;  but   I  " — 'twas  thus 
the   bottle   spoke — "but  I  have   con- 
quered^more  than  all  your  famous  con- 
querors, so  feared  and  famed  of  yore. 
Then  come,  ye  youths  and  maidens, 
come  drink  from  out  my  cup,  the  bev- 
erage that  dulls  the  brain  and  burns 
the  spirit  up ;  that  puts  to  shame 
the  conquerors  that  slay  their 
scores  below ;   for  this  has  del- 
uged millions  with  thelava  tide 
of  woe.    Though,  in  the  path 
of  battle,  darkest  waves  of 
blood  may  roll ;  yet  while 
I  killed  the  body,  I  have 
damned  the  very  soul. 
The  cholera,  the  sword, 
such  ruin  never  wrought, 
as  I,  in  mirth  or  malice,  on 
the  innocent   have  brought 
And  still  I  breathe  upon  them, 
and  they  shrink  before  my  breath  ; 
and  year  by  yoar  my  thousands  tread 

THE   FEARFUL   BOAD   TO   DEATlU 


88 


SORROW   i^OR  THE  DEAD. 


THE  RAINY  DA  Y. 


LONGFELLOW, 


;irE  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary; 
•   It   rains,    and    the   wind    is    never 
weary ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  moldering 

wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves 
fall. 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary; 


It  rains  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  moldering  past 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blasts 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart !  and  cease  repining  ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 
Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


SORROW  FOR   THE  DEAD. 


WASHINGTON   IRVING. 

^HE  8orro\v  for  tlu;  <1<'m<I  is  tlio  only  sorrow  from  wliioli  wc  refuse  to 
be  divorced.  Every  other  wound  we  seek  io  heal,  every  other 
"^^^  affliction  to  forget;  but  this  wound  we  consider  it  a  duty  to  keep 
1  open;  this  affliction  we  eherisli  and  brood  over  in  solitude.  Where 
^  is  the  mother  who  would  willingly  forget  the  infant  that  perished 
like  a  blossom  from  her  arms,  though  every  recollection  is  a  pang?  Where 
B  the  child  that  would  willingly  forget  the  most  tender  of  parents,  though 
to  remember  bo  but  to  lament?     Who,  even  in  the  hour  of  agony,  would 


SORROW  FOR  THE  DEAD.  39 

forget  the  friend  over  whom  ho  mourns  ?  Who,  even  when  the  tomb  is 
closing  upon  the  remains  of  lier  he  most  loved — when  he  feels  his  heart, 
as  it  were,  crushed  in  the  closing  of  its  portals — would  accept  of  consola- 
tion that  must  be  bought  by  forgetfulness  ? 

No,  the  love  which  survives  the  tomb  is  one  of  the  noblest  attributes 
of  the  soul.  If  it  has  its  woes,  it  has  its  delights;  antl  when  the  over- 
whelming burst  of  grief  is  calmed  into  the  gentle  tear  of  recollection, 
(vhen  the  sudden  anguish  and  the  convulsive  agony  over  the  present  ruin-* 
of  all  that  we  most  loved  is  softened  away  into  pensive  meditation  on  all 
that  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  loveliness,  who  would  root  out  such  a  sorrow 
from  the  heart  ?  Though  it  may  sometimes  throw  a  passing  cloud  over 
the  bright  hour  of  gayety,  or  spread  a  deeper  sadness  over  the  hour  of 
gloom,  yet  who  would  exchange  it  even  for  the  song  of  pleasure,  or  the 
burst  of  revelry  ? 

No,  there  is  a  voice  from  the  tomb  sweeter  than  song.  There  is  a 
remembrance  of  the  dead  to  which  we  turn,  even  from  the  charms  of  the 
living.  Oh,  the  grave !  the  grave  I  It  buries  every  error,  covers  every 
defect,  extinguishes  every  resentment !  From  its  peaceful  bosom  spring 
none  but  fond  regrets  and  tender  recollections.  Who  can  look  down,  even 
upon  the  grave  of  an  enemy,  and  not  feel  a  compunctious  throb  that  he 
should  ever  have  warred  with  the  poor  handful  of  earth  that  lies  molder- 
ing  before  him  ? 

But  the  grave  of  those  we  loved,  what  a  place  for  meditation  !  There 
it  is  that  we  call  up  in  long  review  the  whole  history  of  virtue  and  gentle- 
ness, and  the  thousand  endearments  lavished  upon  us,  almost  unheeded  in 
the  daily  intercourse  of  intimacy  ;  there  it  is  that  we  dwell  upon  the 
tenderness,  the  solemn,  awful  tenderness  of  the  parting  scene ;  the  bed  of 
death,  with  all  its  stifled  griefs,  its  noiseless  attendance,  its  mute,  watchful 
assiduities.  The  last  testimonies  of  expiring  love !  the  feeble,  fluttering, 
thrilling, — oh,  how  thrilling  ! — pressure  of  the  hand  !  The  faint,  faltering 
accents,  struggling  in  death  to  give  one  more  assurance  of  affection !  The 
last  fond  look  of  the  glazing  eye,  turned  upon  us  even  from  the  threshold 
of  existence  !  Ay,  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love  and  meditate.  There 
settle  the  account  with  thy  conscience  for  every  past  benefit  unrequited, 
every  past  endearment  unregarded,  of  that  departed  being  who  can  never, 
never,  never  return  to  be  soothed  by  thy  contrition. 

If  thou  art  a  child,  and  hast  ever  added  a  sorrow  to  the  soul,  or  a 
furrow  to  the  silvered  brow  of  an  affectionate  parent;  if  thou  art  a  hus- 
band, and  hast  ever  caused  the  fond  bosom  that  ventured  its  wliole  happi- 
ness in  thy  arms  to  doubt  one  moment  of  thy  kindness  or  thy  truth ;  ii 


90 


EMBARKATION  OF  THE  EXILES. 


tliou  art  a  friend,  and  hast  ever  wronged,  in  thought,  or  word,  or  deed,  the 
spirit  that  generously  confided  in  thee ;  if  thou  art  a  lover,  and  hast  ever 
given  one  unmerited  pang  to  that  true  heart  that  now  lies  cold  and  still 
beneath  thy  feet ;  then  be  sure  that  every  unkind  look,  every  ungracious 
word,  every  ungentle  action  will  come  thronging  back  upon  thy  memory,  and 
knock  dolefully  at  thy  soul ;  then  be  sure  that  thou  wilt  lie  down  sorrowing 
and  repentant  in  the  grave  and  utter  the  unheard  groan,  and  pour  the  un- 
availing tear,  more  deep,  more  bitter,  because  unheard  and  unavailing. 
Then  weave  thy  chaplet  of  flowers,  and  strew  the  beauties  of  nature 
about  the  grave;  console  thy  broken  spirit,  if  thou  canst,  with  these 
tender,  yet  futile  tributes  of  regret ;  but  take  warning  by  the  bitterness  of 
this  thy  contrite  affliction  over  the  dead,  and  henceforth  be  more  faithful 
and  affectionate  in  the  discharge  of  thy  duties  to  the  living. 


EMBARKATION  OF  THE  EXILES. 


FROM    LONiJFHLLOWS    "EVANGELINE. 


jIIKN  diHorder  prcvailoil,  .in<l  tho  tu-  i  Wives  were  torn  from   Ihoir  liushandM,  nti'i 
rnult  ari<l  Htir  of  crnlcirking.  motlierH,  loo  late,  saw  Mieir  cliildn'ri 

_^7jXN^  BuHily  [ilifvl  tlio  freif^htcfl  boats ;  and  |   Left  on  tlie  land,  exttinding  their  arms,  will) 


in  tlio  confusion 


wildest  entreaties. 


THE  GENEROUS  SOLDIER  SAVED. 


97 


So  unto  separate  ships  are  Basil  and  Gabriel 

carried, 
While  in  despair  on  the  shore,  Evangeline 

stood  with  her  father. 
Half  the  task  was  not  done  wlieu  the  sua 

went  down,  and  the  twilight 
Deepened  and  darkened  around  ;  and  in  haste 

the  refluent  ocean 
Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line 

of  the  sand-beach 
Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp  and 

the  slippery  sea-weed. 
Farther  back  in  the  midst  of  the  household 

goods  and  the  wagons, 
Like  to  a  gypsy  camp,  or  a  leaguer  after  a 

battle, 
A.11  escape  cut  off  by  the  sea,  and  the  senti- 
nels near  them, 
Lay   encamped  for  the  night,  the  houseless 

Acadian  farmers. 


Back  to  its  nethermost  cav«a  retreated  th« 
billowing  ocean. 

Dragging  adown  the  beach  the  rattling  peb- 
bles, and  leaving 

Inland  far  up  the  shore  the  stranded  boats  of 
the  sailors. 

Then,  as  the  night  descended,  the  herds  re- 
turned from  their  pastures ; 

Scent  was  the  moist  still  air  with  the  odor  oi 
milk  from  their  udders ; 

Lowing,  they  waited,  and  long  at  the  well 
known  bars  of  the  farm-yard, — 

Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice  and 
the  hand  of  the  milkmaid. 


Silence    reigned    in    the  streets ;    from    the 

Church  no  Angelus  sounded, 
Rose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed 

no  lights  from  the  windows. 


THE  GENEROUS  SOLDIER  SAVED. 


THOUGHT,  Mr.  Allan,  when  I  gave  my  Bennie  to  his  country, 
that  not  a  father  in  all  this  broad  land  made  so  precious  a  gift, — 
no,  not  one.  The  dear  boy  only  slept  a  minute,  just  one  little 
minute,  at  his  post ;  I  know  that  was  all,  for  Bennie  never  dozed 
over  a  duty.  How  prompt  and  reliable  he  was  !  I  know  he  only 
fell  asleep  one  little  second; — he  was  so  young,  and  not  strong,  that 
boy  of  mine  !  Why,  he  was  as  tall  as  I,  and  only  eighteen  !  and  now  they 
shoot  him  because  he  was  found  asleep  w^hen  doing  sentinel  duty.  Twenty- 
four  hours  the  telegram  said, — only  twenty-four  hours.  Where  is  Bennie 
now  ?" 

"We  will  hope,  with  his  heavenly  Father,"  said  Mr.  Allan,  sooth- 

ingly- 

"  Yes,  yes;  let  us  hope;    God  is  very  merciful !" 

" '  I  should  be  ashamed,  father,'  Bennie  said,  '  when  I  am  a  man,  lo 
think  I  never  used  this  great  right  arm  ' — and  he  held  it  out  so  proudly 
before  me — '  for  my  country,  when  it  needed  it.  Palsy  it  rather  than  keep 
it  at  the  plow.' 

"  *  Go,  then,  my  boy,'  I  said,  '  and  God  keep  you !'  God  has  kept  him, 
I  think,  Mr.  Allan !"  and  the  farmer  repeated  these  words  slowly,  as  if.  ir 
Ipite  of  his  reason,  his  heart  doubted  them. 


92  THE  GENEROUS  SOLDIER  SAVED. 

"  Like  the  apple  of  his  eye,  Mr.  Owen ;  doubt  it  not." 

Blossom  sat  near  them  listening,  with  blanched  cheek.  She  had  not 
fihed  a  tear.  Her  anxiety  had  been  so  concealed  that  no  one  had  noticed 
it.  She  had  occupied  herself  mechanically  in  the  household  cares.  Now 
ghe  answered  a  gentle  tap  at  the  kitchen  door,  opening  it  to  receive  from 
a  neighbor's  hand  a  letter.     "  It  is  from  him,"  was  all  she  said. 

It  was  like  a  message  from  the  dead !  Mr.  Owen  took  the  letter,  but 
could  not  break  the  envelope,  on  account  of  his  trembling  fingers,  and  held 
it  toward  Mr.  Allan,  with  the  helplessness  of  a  child. 

The  minister  opened  it,  and  read  as  follows  : — 

"  Dear  Father: — When  this  reaches  you  I  shall  be  in  eternity.  At 
fiist  it  seemed  awful  to  me ;  but  I  have  thought  about  it  so  much  now, 
that  it  has  no  terror.  They  say  they  will  not  bind  me,  nor  blind  me  ;  but 
that  I  may  meet  my  death  like  a  man.  I  thought,  father,  it  might  have 
been  on  the  battle-field,  for  my  country,  and  that,  when  I  fell,  it  would  be 
fighting  gloriously ;  but  to  be  shot  down  like  a  dog  for  nearly  betraying 
it, — to  die  for  neglect  of  duty !  0,  father,  I  wonder  that  the  very  thought 
does  not  kill  me  !  But  I  shall  not  disgrace  you.  I  am  going  to  write  you 
all  about  it ;  and  when  I  am  gone,  you  may  tell  my  comrades.  I  can  not 
now. 

"  You  know  I  promised  Jemmie  Carr's  mother,  I  would  look  after 
her  boy ;  and,  when  he  fell  sick,  I  did  all  I  could  for  him.  He  was  not 
strong  when  he  was  ordered  back  into  the  ranks,  and  the  day  before  that 
night,  I  carried  all  his  luggage,  besides  my  own  on  our  march.  Towards 
night  we  went  in  on  double  quick,  and  though  the  luggage  began  to  feel 
very  heavy,  every  body  else  was  tired  too ;  and  as  for  Jemmie,  if  I  had 
not  lent  him  an  arm  now  and  then,  ho  would  have  dropped  by  the  \v;iy. 
I  was  all  tired  out  when  we  came  into  camp,  and  then  it  was  Jeinnn«js 
turn  to  be  sentry,  and  I  would  take  his  place  ;  but  I  was  too  tired,  fatlicr. 
I  could  not  have  kept  awake  if  a  gun  had  been  pointed  at  ray  head ;  but 
I  did  not  know  it  until — well,  until  it  was  too  late." 

"  God  bo  thanked  !"  interrupted  Mr.  Owen,  reverently.  "  I  knew 
Bennio  was  not  the  boy  to  sleep  carelessly  at  his  post." 

"  They  tell  mo  to-day  that  I  have  a  short  n^jirieve,  given  to  me  bv 
circumntanccs, — *  time  to  writo  to  you/  our  good  colonel  says.  Forgive 
him,  father,  ho  only  docs  his  duty;  he  would  gladly  save  mo  if  he  could; 
and  do  not  lay  my  death  up  against  Jemmie.  The  poor  boy  is  broken- 
hearted, and  docs  nothing  but  beg  and  entreat  them  to  let  him  die  in  my 
Btcarl. 

'•  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  mother  ai:d  Blossom.     Comlort  them, 


7} 

X 


< 
X 

O 
< 


THE  GENEROUS  SOLDIER  SAVED.  93 

father !  Tell  them  I  die  as  a  brave  boy  should,  and  that^  when  the  war  Ls 
over,  they  will  not  be  ashamed  of  me,  as  they  must  be  now.  God  liolp 
me ;  it  is  very  hard  to  bear  !  Good-by,  father  !  God  seems  near  and  dear 
to  me ;  not  at  all  as  if  he  wished  me  to  perish  for  ever,  but  as  if  he  felt 
sorry  for  his  poor,  sinful,  broken-hearted  child,  and  would  take  me  to  bt 
with  him  and  my  Saviour  in  a  better, — better  life." 

A  deep  sigh  burst  from  Mr.  Owen's  heart.  "  Amen,"  he  raid 
solemnly,  "  Amen." 

"  To-night,  in  the  early  twilight,  I  shall  see  the  cows  all  coming  homo 
from  pasture,  and  precious  little  Blossom  stand  on  the  back  stoop,  waiting 
for  me ;  but  I  shall  never,  never  come !  God  bless  you  all !  Forgive  your 
poor  Bennie." 

Late  that  night  the  door  of  the  "  back  stoop  "  opened  softly  and  a  little 
figure  glided  out,  and  down  the  foot-path  that  led  to  the  road  by  the  mill.  She 
seemed  rather  flying  than  walking,  turning  her  head  neither  to  the  right 
nor  the  left,  looking  only  now  and  then  to  Heaven,  and  folding  her  hands, 
as  if  in  prayer.  Two  hours  later,  the  same  young  girl  stood  at  the  Mill 
Depot,  watching  the  coming  of  the  night  train ;  and  the  conductor,  as  he 
reached  down  to  lift  her  into  the  car,  wondered  at  tlio  tear-stained  face 
that  was  upturned  toward  the  bright  lantern  he  held  in  his  hand.  A  few 
questions  and  ready  answers  told  him  all ;  and  no  father  could  tave  cared 
more  tenderly  for  his  only  child  than  he  for  our  little  Blossom.  She  was 
on  her  way  to  Washington,  to  ask  President  Lincoln  for  her  brother's  life. 
She  had  stolen  away,  leaving  only  a  note  to  tell  where  and  why  she  had 
gone.  She  had  brought  Bennie's  letter  with  her ;  no  good,  kind  heart, 
like  the  President's,  could  refuse  to  be  melted  by  it.  The  next  morning 
they  reached  New  York,  and  the  conductor  hurried  heron  to  Wiishington. 
Every  minute,  now,  might  be  the  means  of  saving  her  brother's  life.  And 
so,  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  Blossom,  reached  the  Capital,  and  hastened 
immediately  to  the   White  House. 

The  President  had  but  just  seated  himself  to  the  task  of  overlooking 
and  signing  important  papers,  when,  without  one  word  of  announcement, 
the  door  softly  opened,  and  Blossom,  with  downcast  eyes  and  folded  hands, 
stood  before  him. 

"  Well,  my  child,"  he  said,  in  his  pleasant,  cheerful  tones,  "  what  do 
you  want?" 

"Bennie's  life,  please  sir!''  faltered  Blossom. 

"  Bennie  ?     Who  is  Bennie  ?" 

"My  brother,  sir.    They  are  going  to  shoot  him  for  sleeping  at  his  post.* 

**  Oh,  yes;"  and  Mr.  Lincoln  ran  his  eye  over  the  papers  before  hiin. 


94 


THE  GENEROUS  SOLDIER  SAVED. 


"I  remember.  It  was  a  fatal  sleep.  You  see,  child,  it  was  at  a  time  of 
epecial  danger.  Thousands  of  lives  might  have  been  lost  for  his  culpable 
negligence." 

"  So  my  father  said,"  replied  Blossom,  gravely,  "  but  poor  Bennie  was 
BO  tired,  sir,  and  Jemmie  so  weak.     He  did  the  work  of  two,  sir,  and  ii 


lAlll.i:    KI-U.-.-iiM     AMI    l'l;i,->llil-,M'    LINCULN. 


wa.s  Jemmies  night,  not  his ;  but  Jemmie  was  too  tired,  and  Bonnie  never 
thouglit  about  himself,  that  he  was  tired  too." 

"  What  is  thi.s  you  say,  cliild  ?  Come  hero;  I  do  not  und(>rstand," 
and  the  kind  in.in  caught  eag<!rly,  ;i.s  uver,  at  what  seemed  to  be  a  justifi- 
cation of  an  otfcnce. 

Blossom  went  to  him;  he  put  hi.s  hand  tenderly  on  her  shoulder,  and 


SONG  OF  SARATOGA.  95 


turned  up  the  pale,  anxious  face  towards  his.  How  tall  he  seemed  !  and 
he  was  President  of  the  United  States,  too. 

A  dim  thought  of  this  kind  passed  for  a  moment  through  Blossom's 
mind  ;  but  she  told  her  simple  and  straightforward  story,  and  handed  Mr. 
Lincoln  Bennie's  letter  to  read. 

He  read  it  carefully ;  then,  taking  up  his  pen,  wrote  a  few  hasty 
Hnes,  and  rang  his  bell. 

Blossom  heard  this  order  given :  "  Send  this  dispatch  at  once." 

The  President  then  turned  to  the  girl  and  said,  "  Go  home,  my  child, 
and  tell  that  father  of  yours,  who  could  approve  his  country's  sentence, 
even  when  it  took  the  life  of  a  child  like  that,  that  Abraham  Lincoln 
thinks  the  life  far  too  precious  to  be  lost.  Go  back,  or — wait  until  to- 
morrow ;  Bennie  will  need  a  change  after  he  has  so  bravely  faced  death ; 
he  shall  go  with  you." 

"God  bless  you,  sir,"  said  Blossom;  and  who  shall  doubt  that  Goc 
heard  and  registered  the  request  ? 

Two  days  after  this  interview,  the  young  soldier  came  to  the  White 
House  with  his  little  sister.  He  was  called  into  the  President's  private 
room,  and  a  strap  fastened  upon  the  shoulder.  ]\Ir.  Lincoln  then  said : 
"  The  soldier  that  could  carry  a  sick  comrade's  baggage,  and  die  for  the 
act  so  uncomplainingly,  deserves  well  of  his  country."  Then  Bennie  and 
Blossom  took  their  way  to  their  Green  Mountain  home.  A  crowd  gathered 
at  the  Mill  Depot  to  welcome  them  back ;  and  as  farmer  Owen's  hand 
grasped  that  of  his  boy,  tears  flowed  down  his  cheeks  and  he  was  heai'd 
to  say  fervently :   "  The  Lord  he  praised  !" 


SONG  OF  SABA  TOGA. 


JOHN   G.   SAXE. 


O-Cj 


^RAY    what    do    they    do    at    the 
Springs?" 
The  question  is  easy  to  ask : 
But  to  answer  it  fully,  my  dear, 

Were  rather  a  serious  task. 
And  yet,  in  a  bantering  way. 
As  the  magpie  or  mocking-bird  sings, 
t'll  venture  a  bit  of  a  song, 
To  tell  what  they  do  at  the  Springs. 
7 


Imprimis,  my  darling,  they  drink 

The  waters  so  sparkling  and  clear; 
Though  the  flavor  is  none  of  the  best, 

And  the  odor  exceedingly  queer: 
But  the  fluid  is  mingled  you  know, 

With  wholesome  medicinal  things; 
So  they  drink,   and   they  drink,   and   they 
drink, — 

And  that's  what  they  do  at  the  Springs  ■ 


96 


THE  RUINED  COTTAGE. 


Then  with  appetites  keen  as  a  knife, 

They  hasten  to  breakfast,  or  dine ; 
The  latter  precisely  at  three, 

The  former  from  seven  till  nine. 
Ye  gods !  what  a  rustle  and  rush, 

When  the  eloquent  dinner-bell  rings  ! 
Then  they  eat,  and  they  eat,  and  they  eat — 

And  that's  what  they  do  at  the  Springs ! 

Now  they  stroll  in  the  beautiful  walks, 

Or  loll  in  the  shade  of  the  trees ; 
Where  many  a  whisper  is  heard 

That  never  is  heard  by  the  breeze ; 
And  hands  are  commingled  with  hands, 

Regardless  of  conjugal  rings : 
And  they  flirt,  and  they  flirt,  and  they  flirt — 

And  that's  what  they  do  at  the  Springs  ! 


The  drawing-rooms  now  are  ablaze, 

And  music  is  shrieking  away  ; 
Terpsichore  governs  the  hour. 

And  fashion  was  never  so  gay  ! 
An  arm  round  a  tapering  waist — 

How  closely  and  how  fondly  it  clings ! 
So  they  waltz,  and  they  waltz,  and  tliey  wnltz 

And  that's  what  they  do  at  the  Springs  I 

In  short, —  as  it  goes  in  the  world, — 

They  eat,  and  they  drink,  and  they  sleep ; 
They  talk,  and  they  walk,  and  they  woo ; 

They  sigh,  and  they  laugh,  and  they  weep  ; 
They  read,  and  they  ride,  and  they  dance ; 

(With  other  remarkable  things :) 
They  pray,  and  they  play,  and  they  pay, — 

And  that's  what  they  do  at  the  Springs ! 


THE  RUINED  COTTAGE. 


^flr 


MRS.  LETITIA  E.  MACLEAN. 


ONE  will  dwell  in  that  cottage,  for  they  say  oppression  reft  it  from 
an  honest  man,  and  that  a  curse  clings  to  it ;  hence  the  vine  trails 

^  its  green  weight  of  leaves  upon  the  ground ;  hence  weeds  are  in 
that  garden ;  hence   the  hedge,  once  sweet  with  honeysuckle,  is 

ihalf  dead ;  and  hence  the  gray  moss  on  the  apple-tree.  One  once 
dwelt  there  who  had  been  in  his  youth  a  soldier,  and  when  many 
years  had  passed,  he  sought  his  native  village,  and  sat  down  to  end  his 
days  in  peace.  He  had  one  child — a  little,  laughing  thing,  whose  large, 
dark  eyes,  he  said,  were  like  the  mother's  he  had  left  buried  in  strangers' 
land.  And  time  went  on  in  comfort  and  content — and  that  fair  girl  had 
grown  far  taller  than  the  red  rose  tree  her  father  planted  on  her  first  Eng- 
lish birthday;  and  he  had  trained  it  up  against  an  ash  till  it  became  his 
pride;  it  was  so  rich  in  blossom  and  in  beauty,  it  was  called  the  tree  of 
Isabel.  'Twa-s  an  appeal  to  all  the  better  feelings  of  the  heart,  to  mark  their 
quiet  happiness,  their  home — in  tiuth  a  home  of  love, — and  more  than  all, 
to  see  them  on  the  Sabbath,  when  they  came  among  the  first  to 
church,  and  Isabel,  with  her  bright  color  and  her  clear,  glad  eyes,  bowed 
down  so  meekly  in  the  house  of  prayer,  and  in  the  hymn  her  sweet  voice 
audible ;  her  father  looked  so  fond  of  her,  and  then  from  her  looked  U[)  so 
thankfully  to  heaven!  And  their  small  cottage  was  so  very  neat;  their 
garden  filled  with  fruits  and  herbs  and  flowers ;  and  in  the  winter  there 
was  no  fireside  so  cheerful  as  their  own. 


THE  SOUL  OF  ELOUUK.NCE. 


97 


But  other  days  and  other  fortunes  came — an  evil  power !  They  bore 
against  it  cheerfully,  and  hoped  for  better  times,  Ijut  ruin  came  at  last;  and 
the  old  soldier  left  his  own  dear  home,  and  left  it  for  a  })rison  !  'Twas  in  June 
— one  of  June's  brightest  days ;  the  bee,  the  bird,  the  butterfly,  were  on 
their  lightest  wing;  the  fruits  had  their  first 
tinge  of  summer  light ;  the  sunny  sky,  the  very 
leaves  seemed  glad ;  and  the  old  man  looked 
back  upon  his  cot  and  wept  aloud.  They  hur- 
ried him  away  from  the  dear  child  that  would 
not  leave  his  side.  They  led  him  from  the  sight 
of  the  blue  heaven  and  the  green  trees  into  a 
low,  dark  cell,  the  windows  shutting  out  the 
blessed  sun  with  iron  o-ratinp; ;  and  for  the  first 
time  he  threw  him  on  his  bed,  and  could  not 
hear  his  Isabel's  good  night !  But  the  next 
morn  she  was  the  earliest  at  the  prison  gate, 
ihe  last  on  whom  it  closed ;  and  her  sweet  voice 
and  sweeter  smile  made  him  forget  to  pine,  notwithstanding  his  deep  sorrow. 

She  brought  him  every  morning  fresh  wild  flowers ;  but  every  morning 
he  could  mark  her  cheek  grow  paler  and  more  pale,  and  her  low  tones 
get  fainter  and  moi  e  faint,  and  a  cold  dew  was  on  the  hand  he  held.  One 
day  he  saw  the  sunshiLe  through  the  grating  of  his  cell — yet  Isabel  came 
tiot;  at  every  sound  his  heart-beat  took  away  his  breath — yet  still  she 
came  not  near  him !  But  cne  sad  day  he  marked  the  dull  street  through 
the  iron  bars  that  shut  him  from  the  world  ;  at  length  he  saw  a  coffin  car- 
ried carelessly  along,  and  he  grew  desperate — he  forced  the  bars,  and  he 
stood  on  the  street  free  and  alone  !  He  had  no  aim,  no  wish  for  liberty ; 
he  only  felt  one  want — to  see  the  corpse  that  had  no  mourners.  Wlien 
they  set  it  down,  ere  it  was  lowered  into  the  new-dug  grave,  a  rush  of  pas- 
sion came  upon  his  soul,  and  he  tore  off  the  lid — he  saw  the  face  of  Isabel, 
and  knew  he  had  no  child !  He  lay  down  by  the  coffin  quietly — his  heart 
was  broken ! 


THE  SOUL  OF  ELOQUENCE. 


JOHANN   W,   GOETHE. 


;()W  bball  we  learn  to  sway  the  minds 
of  men 
Bj'    eloquence  ? — to    rule    them,  to 
persuade  ? — 


Do  you  seek  genuine  and  worthy  fani«T 
Reason  and  honest  feeling  want  no  arta 
Of  utterance,  ask  no  toil  of  elocution  ! 
And,  when  you  ejeak  iu  earnest  do  you  need 


98 


SONG  OF  SPRING. 


A  search  for  words  ?     Oh  !  these  fine  holiday 

phrases, 
In  which  you  robe  your  worn-out  common- 

placfs. 
These  scraps  of  paper  which  you  crimp  and 

curl 
And  twist  into  a  thousand  idle  shapes, 
These     filigree    ornaments,     are     good   for 

nothing, — 
Cost  time  and  pains,  please  few,  impose  on  no 

one  ; 
Are  unrefreshing  as  the  wind  that  whistles. 
In  autumn,    'mong  the  dry    and  wrinkled 

leaves. 
If  feeling  does   not   prompt,  in    vain    you 

strive. 
If  from  the  soul  the  language  does  not  come, 
By  its  own  impulse,  to  impel  the  hearts 


Of  hearers  with  communicated  power, 

In   vain    you    strive,   in    vain   you   study 

earnestly  ! 
Toil  on  forever,  piece  together  fragments. 
Cook  up  your  broken  scraps  of  sentences, 
And  blow,  with  pufling  breath,  a  struggling 

light. 
Glimmering    confusedly  now,  now    cold  in 

ashes  ; 
Startle    the    school-boys  with    your    meta- 
phors,— 
And,  if  such  food  may  suit  your  appetite. 
Win  the  vain  wonder  of  applauding  child 

ren, — 
But  never  hope  to  stir  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  mould  the  souls  of  many  into  one. 
By  words  which  come  not  native  from  the 
heart ! 


,      ^^ 


sosu  OF  ar/n.xo. 


§i^.\UD  th«  fipHt  Bpring  daiHJes  ; 
f/^^     Chant  aloud  their  iiraiseH; 
.^;^^^  Send  the  children  up 
^^      To  the  high  hill's  top  ; 


EDWAllD    YOUL. 


Tax  not  tilt;  utrtingth  of  their  young  hands 
To  increase  your  lands. 
Gather  tlie  priinrosoH, 
Make  hundliil?  'nto  posiea ; 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  LONG  AGO. 


99 


Take  them  to  the  little  girls  who  are  at  work 

in  mills : 
Pluck  the  violets  blue, — 
Ah,  pluck  not  a  few ! 
Knowest    thou    what  good    thoughts   from 

Heaven  the  violet  instils  ? 

Oive  the  children  holidays, 

(And  let  these  be  jolly  days,) 

Grant  freedom  to  the  children  in  this  joyous 

spring ; 
Better  men,  hereafter. 
Shall  we  have,  for  laughter 
Freely   shouted   to   the   woods,    till   all   the 

echoes  ring. 
Send  the  children  up 
To  the  high  hill's  top, 
Or  deep  into  the  wood's  recesses, 

To  woo  spring's  caresses. 
Ah,  come  and  woo  the  spring; 
List  to  the  birds  that  sing ; 
Pluck  the  primroses  ;  pluck  the  violets ; 


Pluck  the  daisies, 
Sing  their  praises ; 
Friendship  with  the  flowers  some  noble  thought 

begets. 
Come  forth  and  gather  these  sweet  elves, 
(More  witching  are  they  than  the  fays  of  old,) 
Come  forth  and  gather  them  yourselves ; 
Learn  of  these  gentle  flowers  whose  worti  k 

more  than  gold. 

Corae  forth  on  Sundays  •, 

Come  forth  on  Mondays ; 

Come  forth  on  any  day ; 

Children,  come  forth  to  play; — 

Worship  the  God  of  nature  in  your  childhood; 

Worship  him  at  your  tasks  with  best  endeavor; 

Worship  him  in  your  sports;  worship  him  ever, 

Worship  him  in  the  wildwood; 

Worship  him  amidst  the  flowers ; 

In  the  greenwood  bowers ; 

Pluck  the  buttercups,  and  raise 

Your  voices  in  his  praise ! 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  LONG  AGO. 


MRS.    J.    H.    RIDDELL. 


I^ITE  ghosts  of  the  long  ago — laid  and  buried,  as  you  fancied,  years  and 
years  since,  friends, — though  your  present  sight  may  fail  to 
discern  them, — they  are  traveling  with  you  still,  a  gha.stly  com- 
pany. While  you  drive  in  your  carriage  along  life's  smoothest  turn- 
pike-roads, or  pace,  footsore  and  weary,  over  the  flinty  by-paths  of 
existence,  past  events  are  skipping  on  beside  you,  mocking,  jeering,  at  your 
profound  self-delusion.  Shall  fleet  steeds  leave  them  behind?  Shall 
liveried  servants  keep  them  at  bay  ?  Shall  an  unsuccessful  existence, 
drawing  to  a  still  more  unsuccessful  close,  be  able  to  purchase  their  for- 
bearance ?  Nay,  invisible  now,  they  shall  be  visible  some  day  ;  voiceless, 
they  shall  yet  find  tongues  ;  despised,  they  shall  rear  their  head  and  hiss 
at  you  ;  forgotten,  they  shall  reappear  with  more  strength  than  at  their 
first  birth;  and  wdien  the  evil  day  comes,  and  your  power,  and  your 
energy,  and  your  youth  and  your  hope,  have  gone,  they  shall  pour  the 
overflowing  drop  into  your  cup,  they  shall  mingle  fennel  with  your  wine, 
they  shall  pile  the  last  straw^  on  your  back,  they  shall  render  wealth 
valueless  and  life  a  burden  ;  they  shall  make  poverty  more  bitter,  and  add 
another  pain  to  that  which  already  racks   you;    they  shall  break    the 


100 


THE  FARMER  AND  THE  COUNSELLOR. 


breaking  heart,  and  make  you  turn  your  changed  face  to  the  wall,  and 
gather  up  your  feet  into  your  bed,  and  pray  to  be  delivered  from  your 
tormentors  by  your  God,  who  alone  knows  all. 

Wherefore,  young  man,  if  you  would  ensure  a  peaceful  old  age,  be 
careful  of  the  acts  of  each  day  of  your  youth ;  for  with  youth  the  deeds 
thereof  are  not  to  be  left  behind.  They  are  detectives,  keener  and  more 
unerring  than  ever  the  hand  of  sensational  novelist  depicted;  they  will  dog 
you  from  the  hour  you  sinned  till  the  hour  your  trial  comes  off.  You  are 
prosperous,  you  are  great,  you  are  "beyond  the  world,"  as  I  have  heard  peo- 
ple say,  meaning  the  power  or  the  caprice  thereof;  but  you  are  not  beyond 
the  power  of  events.  "Whatever  you  may  think  now,  they  are  only  biding 
their  time ;  and  when  you  are  weak  and  at  their  mercy,  when  the  world 
you  fancied  you  were  beyond  has  leisure  to  hear  their  story  and  scoff  at 
you,  they  will  come  forward  and  tell  all  the  bitter  tale.  And  if  you  take 
it  one  way,  you  will  bluster  and  bully,  and  talk  loud,  and  silence  society 
before  your  face,  if  you  fail  to  still  its  tattle  behind  your  back ;  while  ii 
you  take  it  another  way,  you  will  bear  the  scourging  silently,  and  cover  up 
the  marks  of  the  lash  as  best  you  may,  and  go  home  and  close  your  door, 
and  sit  there  alone  with  y<Dur  misery,  decently  and  in  order,  till  you  die. 


THE  FARMER  AND   THE  COUNSELLOR. 


'  'OUNSEL  in  the  "  Common  Pleas," 
Who  was  esteemed  a  mighty  wit, 
Upon  the  strength  of  a  chance  hit, 
(i,' .     "    Amid  a  thousand  flippancies, 
"[  And  his  occf.-';ional  bad  jokes, 

j*  In  bullying,  bantering,  browbeating, 

j  Ridiculing  and  maltreating 

Women,  or  other  timid  folks; 
In  a  late  cause,  rosolved  to  hoax 
A  clownish  Yorkshire  farmer — one 
Who  by  his  uncouth  look  and  gait, 
Appeared  expressly  meant  by  fate 
For  being  quizzed  and  played  ujion. 

So  having  tipped  the  wink  to  those 

In  the  back  rows, 
Wlio  kept  their  laughter  bottled  down. 

Until  our  wag  should  draw  the  cork — 
He  smiled  jocosely  on  the  clown, 

And  went  to  work. 

"  Well,  Farmer  Numskull,  how  go  calve«  at 
York  ?  '• 


"  Wh)' — not,  sir,  as  they  do  wi'  yoa; 

But  on  four  legs  instead  of  two." 
"  Officer,"  cried  the  legal  elf, 
Piqued  at  the  laugh  against  himself, 

"  Do,    pray,    keep   silence    down    beloip 
there ! 
Now  look  at  me,  clown  and  attend, 
Have  I  not  seen  you  somewhere,  friend?" 

"  Yees,  very  like,  I  often  go  there." 

"  Our  rustic's  waggish — quite  lanconic," 
(Tlie  counsel  cried,  with  grin  sardonic,) 

"  I  wish  I'd  known  this  prodigy, 
This  genius  of  the  clods,  when  I 

On  circuit  was  at  York  residing. 
Now,  farmer,  do  for  once  speak  tru^ 
Mind,  you'ro  on  oath,  bo  tell  me,  yon 
Who  doubtless  think  yourself  so  clever. 
Are  there  as  many  fools  as  ever 

In  the  West  Riding?" 

"  Why  no,  sir,  no!  we've  got  our  share. 
liut  not  H0  many  as  when  you  were  thert." 


JIMMY  BUTLER  AND  THE  OWL. 


ioi 


JIMMY  BUTLER  AND  THE  OWL. 


lif  T  was  in  the  summer  of  '46  that  I  landed  at  Hamilton,  fresh  as  a  new 

^^     pratie  just  dug  from  the  ''ould  sod,"  and  wid  a  light  heart  and  a 

im     heavy  bundle  I  sot  off  for  the  township  of  Buford,  tiding  a  taste  of  a 

f      song,  as  merry  a  young  fellow  as  iver  took  the  road.      Well,  I 

I       trudged  on  and  on,  past  many  a  plisint  place,  pleasin'  myself  wid  the 

I       thought  tliat  some  day  I  might  have  a  place  of  my  own,  wid  a  world 

of  chickens  and  ducks  and  pigs  and  childer  about  the  door ;  and  along  in 

the  afternoon  of  the  sicond  day  I  got  to  Buford  village.      A  cousin  of  me 

mother's,  one  Dennis  O'Dowd,  lived  about  sivin  miles  from  there,  and  I 

wanted  to  make  his  place  that  night,  so  I  inquired  the  way  at  the  tavern, 

and  was  lucky  to  find  a  man  who  was  goin'  part  of  the  way  an'  would  show 

me  the  way  to  find  Dennis.     Sure  he  was  very  kind  indade,  an'  when  I  got 

out  of  his  wagon  he  pointed  mo  through  the  wood  and  tould  me  to  go 

straight  south  a  mile  an'  a  half,  and  the  first  house  would  be  Dennis's. 

"  An'  you've  no  time  to  lose  now," 
said  he,  "  for  the  sun  is  low,  and  mind 
you  don't  get  lost  in  the  woods." 

"  Is  it  lost  now,"  said  I,  "  that  I'd 
be  gittin,  an'  me  uncle  as  great  a  navi- 
gator as  iver  steered  a  ship  across  the 
thrackless  say !  Not  a  bit  of  it,  though 
I'm  obleeged  to  ye  for  your  kind  advice, 
and  thank  yez  for  the  ride." 

An'  wid  that  he  drove  off  an'  left  me 
alone.  I  shouldered  me  bundle  bravely, 
an'  whistlin'  a  bit  of  tune  for  company 
like,  I  pushed  into  the  bush.  Well,  I 
went  a  long  way  over  bogs,  and  turnin' 
round  among  the  bush  an'  trees  till  I 
began  to  think  I  must  be  well  nigh  to  Dennis's.  But,  bad  cess  to  it!  all 
of  a  sudden  I  came  out  of  the  woods  at  the  very  identical  spot  where  I 
started  in,  which  I  knew  by  an  ould  crotched  tree  that  seemed  to  be  standin' 
on  its  head  and  kickin'  up  its  heels  to  make  divarsion  of  me.  By  this 
time  it  was  growin'  dark,  and  as  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  I  started  in  a 
second  time,  determined  to  keep  straight  south  this  time  and  no  mistake. 
I  got  on  bravely  for  a  while,  but  och  hone !  och  hone !  it  got  so  dark  I 
couldn't  see  the  trees,  and  I  bumped  me  nose  and  barked  me  shins,  while 


YOU  VE    NO    TIME    TO    LOSE    KOW. 


102  JIMMY  BUiLER  AND  THE  OWL. 

the  miskaties  bit  me  hands  and  face  to  a  blister ;  an'  after  tumblin'  and 
stumblin'  around  till  I  was  fairly  barafoozled,  I  sat  down  on  a  log,  all  of  a 
trimble,  to  think  that  I  was  lost  intirely,  an'  that  maybe  a  lion  or  some 
other  wild  craythur  would  devour  me  before  morning. 

Just  then  I  heard  somebody  a  long  way  off  say,  "  Whip  poor  Will !  " 
"  Bedad,"  sez  I,  "  I'm  glad  that  it  isn't  Jamie  that's  got  to  take  it,  though 
it  seems  it's  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger  they  are  doin'  it,  or  why  should 
they  say,  '  poor  Will  ? '  an'  sure  they  can't  be  Injin,  haythin,  or  naygur, 
for  it's  plain  English  they're  afther  spakin'.  Maybe  they  might  help  me 
out  o'  this,"  so  I  shouted  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  "  A  lost  man  !  "  Thin  I 
listened."    Prisently  an  answer  came. 

''Who?    Whoo?    Whooo?" 

"Jamie  Butler,  the  waiver!  "  sez  I,  as  loud  as  I  could  roar,  an'  snatchin' 
up  me  bundle  an'  stick,  I  started  in  the  direction  of  the  voice.  Whin  I 
thought  I  had  got  near  the  place  I  stopped  and  shouted  again,  "  A  lost 
man  !  " 

"  Who !  Whoo  !  Whooo  !  "  said  a  voice  right  over  my  head. 

"  Sure,"  thinks  I,  "  it's  a  mighty  quare  place  for  a  man  to  be  at  this 
time  of  night ;  maybe  it's  some  settler  scrapin'  sugar  off  a  sugar-bush  for 
the  children's  breakfast  in  the  mornin'.      But  where's  Will  and  the  rest  of. 
them  ?  "     All  this  wint  through  me  head  like  a  flash,  an'  thin  I  answered 
his  inquiry. 

"  Jamie  Butler,  the  waiver,"  sez  I ;  "  and  if  it  wouldn't  inconvanience 
yer  honor,  would  yez  be  kind  enough  to  step  down  and  show  me  the  way 
to  the  house  of  Dennis  O'Dowd  ?  " 

"  Who  !  Whoo  !  Whooo  !  "  sez  he. 

"  Dennis  O'Dowd,"  sez  I,  civil  enough,  "  and  a  dacent  man  he  is,  and 
first  cousin  to  mc  own  mother." 

"  Who  !  Whoo  !  Whooo  !  "  sez  ho  again. 

"Mo  mother!  "  sez  I,  "and  as  fine  a  woman  a.s  iver  peeled  a  bilcd  pratie 
wid  hi?r  thumb  nail,  and  her  father's  name  was  Paddy  McFiij;i!,in. 

"Who!  Whoo!  Whooo!" 

"Paddy  McFiggin !  bad  luck  to  yer  deaf  ould  head,  Paddy  McFiggin, 
I  say — do  ye  hoar  that?  An'  Ik;  was  the  tallest  man  in  all  county  Tipp(M-- 
ary,  excij)t  Jim  Doyle,  the  blacksmith." 

"  Who  !  Whoo  !  Wliooo  !  " 

"Jim  Doyle,  tlie  blacksmith,"  sez  I,  "ye  good  for  nothiii'  blaggurd 
naygur,  and  if  yez  don't  come  down  and  slioNV  mc  the  way  this  min't,  I'll 
climb  u[)  there  and  break  every  bone  in  your  skin,  ye  spalpeen,  so  sure  as 
mc  name  is  Jimmy  Butlnr  !  " 


JIMMY  BUTLER  AND  THK  OWf. 


103 


"  Who !  Whoo  !  Whooo  ! "  sez  he,  iw 
impident  as  ever. 

I  said  niver  a  word,  but  lavhi'  down 
me  bundle,  and  takin'  me  stick  in  me 
teeth,  I  began  to  cUmb  the  tree.  Whin 
I  got  among  the  branches  I  looked 
quietly  around  till  I  saw  a  pair  of  big 
eyes  just  forninst  me. 

"Whist,"  sez  I,  "and  I'll  let  him 
have  a  taste  of  an  Irish  stick,"  and  wid 
that  I  let  drive  and  lost  me  balance  an' 
came  tumblin'  to  the  ground,  nearly 
breakin'  me  neck  wid  the  fall.  Whin 
I  came  to  rae  sinsis  I  had  a  very  sore 
head  wid  a  lump  on  it  like  a  goose  egg, 

and  half  of  me  Sunday  coat-tail  torn  off  intirely.     I  spoke  to  the  chap  in 
the  tree,  but  could  git  niver  an  answer,  at  all,  at  all. 

Sure,  thinks  I,  he  must  have  gone  home  to  rowl  up  his  head,  for  by  the 
powers  I  didn't  throw  me  stick  for  nothin'. 

Well,  by  this  time  the  moon  was  up  and  I  could  see  a  little,  and  I 
detarmined  to  make  one  more  effort  to  reach  Dennis's. 

I  wint  on  cautiously  for  a  while,  an'  thin  I  heard  a  bell.  "  Sure,"  aez 
I,  "  I'm  comin'  to  a  settlement  now,  for  I  hear  the  church  bell."  I  kept 
on  toward  the  sound  till  I  came  to  an  ould  cow  wid  a  bell  on.  She  started 
to  run,  but  I  was  too  quick  for  her,  and  got  her  by  the  tail  and  hung  on, 
thinkin'  that  maybe  she  would  take  me  out  of  the  woods.  On  we  wint,  like 
an  ould  country  steeple-chase,  till,  sure  enough,  we  came  out  to  a  clearin' 
and  a  house  in  sight  wid  a  light  in  it.  So,  leaving  the  ould  cow  puflBn' 
and  blowin'  in  a  shed,  I  went  to  the  house,  and  as  luck  would  have  it, 
whose  should  it  be  but  Dennis's. 

He  gave  me  a  raal  Irish  welcome,  and  introduced  me  to  his  two 
daughters — as  purty  a  pair  of  girls  as  iver  ye  clapped  an  eye  on.  But 
whin  I  tould  him  my  adventure  in  the  woods,  and  about  the  fellow  who 
made  fun  of  me,  they  all  laughed  and  roared,  and  Dennis  said  it  was  an 

Ov,'l. 

"  An  ould  what  ?  "  sez  I. 
'  "  Why,  an  owl,  a  bird,"  sez  he. 
"  Do  ye  tell  me  now  ?  "  sez  I.  "  Sure  it's  a  quare  countiy  and  a  qmwe 


bird." 


And  thin  they  all  laughed  again,  till  at  last  I   laughed  myself,  that 


104 


THE  OLD  WAYS  AND  THE  NEW. 


hearty  like,  and  dropped  right  into  a  chair  between  the  two  purty  girls 
and  the  ould  chap  winked  at  me  and  roared  again. 

Dennis  is  me  father-in-law  now,  and  he  often  yet  delights  to  tell  our 
children  about  their  daddy's  adventure  wid  the  owl. 


THE  OLD   WAYS  AND  THE  NEW. 


JOHN    H.    YATES. 


S'VE  just  come  in  from  the  meadow,  wife, 
s  where  the  grass  is  tall  and  green  ; 

H  I   hobbled   out  upon   my  cane   to   seo 
A  John's  new  machine  ; 

^    It  made  my  old  eyes  snap  again  to  see 
that  mower  mow. 
And  I  heaved  a  sigh  for  the  scythe  I 
swung  some  twenty  years  ago. 


Many  and  many's  the  day  I've  mowed  'neath 

the  rays  of  a  scorching  sun, 
Till  I  thought  my  poor  old  back  would  break 

ere  my  ta.sk  for  the  day  was  done ; 
I  ofl«n  think  of  the  days  of  toil  in  the  fields 

all  over  the  farm, 
Till  I  feel  the  sweat  on  my  wrinkled  brow, 

and  the  old  pain  come  in  my  arm. 

It  was  hard  work,  it  was  slow  work,  a-swing- 

ing  the  old  scythe  then  ; 
Unlike  the  mower  that   went   through   the 

graflfl  like  death  through  the  ranks  of  men. 
I  stood  and  looked  till  rny  old  eyes  ached, 

amazed  at  it^  speed  and  power  ; 
Tlie  work  that  it  took  me  a  day  to  do,  it  done 

in  ono  short  hour. 

lorin  said  that  I  hadn't  seen  the  lialf :   when 

he  [lutfl  it  into  his  wheat, 
I  Hhall  see  it  reap  and  rake  it,  and  i>iit  it  in 

hunfjlea  neat ; 
Then  soon  a  Yankee  will  cornc  along,  and  set 

to  work  and  larn 
fo  reap  it,  and  tlirenh  it,  and  bag  it  up,  and 

eend  it  into  the  barn. 


John  kinder  laughed  when  he  said  it  -,  but  I 
said  to  the  hired  men, 

"  I  have  seen  so  much  on  my  pilgrimage 
through  my  threescore  years  and  ten, 

That  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  to  see  a  railroad 
in  the  air. 

Or  a  Yankee  in  a  flyin'  ship  a-goin'  most  any- 
where." 

There's  a  difference  in  the  work  I  done,  and 

the  work  my  boys  now  do ; 
Steady  and  slow  in  the  good  old  way,  worry 

and  fret  in  the  new  ; 
But   somehow  I  think  there  was  happiness 

crowded  into  those  toiling  days, 
That  the  fast  young  men  of  the  present  will 

not  see  till  they  change  their  ways. 

To  think  that  I  ever  should  live  to  see  work 

done  in  this  wonderful  way  1 
Old  tools  are  of  little  service  now,  and  farinin' 

is  almost  play ; 
The  women  have  got  their  sewin'-machines, 

their  wringers,  and  every  sich  thing, 
And  now  play  croquet  in  the  door-yard,  or 

.sit  in  the  parlor  and  sing. 

'Twasn't  you  that  iia<l  it  ho  easy,  wife,  in  \h» 

days  80  long  gone  by  ; 
You  riz  up  early,  and  sat  u]>  l:ite,  a  toilin'  for 

you  and  I. 
There  were  cows  to  milk  ;  there  was  buttiT  to 

make;  and  many  a  day  did  you  stand 
A  wiu'hin'    rny    toil-stained    ganiii'iita,    and 

wringiii'  em  out  by  hand. 


Vi'»-'iF 


NEW  ENGLAND. 


105 


Ah  !  wife,  our  children  will  never  see  the  hard 

work  we  have  seen, 
For  the  heavy  task  and  the  long  task  is  now 

done  with  a  machine  ; 
No  longer  the  noise  of  the  scythe  I  hear,  the 

mower — there  !  hear  it  afar  ? 
A-rattlin'  along  through  the  tall,  stout  grass 

with  the  noise  of  a  railroad  car. 

Well !  the  old   tools  now  are  shoved  away ; 

they  stand  a-gatherin'  rust. 
Like  many  an  old  man  I  have  seen  put  aside 

with  only  a  crust ; 


When  the  eye  grows  dim,  when  the  step  is  weak 
when  the  strength  goes  out  of  his  arm, 

The  best  thing  a  poor  old  man  can  do  is  to 
hold  the  deed  of  the  farm. 

There  is  one  old  way  that  they  can't  imprcvt, 
although  it  has  been  tried 

By  men  who  have  studied  and  studied,  and 
worried  till  they  died  ; 

It  has  shone  undimmed  for  ages,  like  gold  re- 
fined from  its  dross ; 

It's  the  way  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  by 
the  simple  way  of  the  cross. 


MEW  ENGLAND. 


S.  S.  PEENTISS. 


LORIOUS  New  England !  thou  art  still  true  to  thy  ancient  fame, 
and  worthy  of  thy  ancestral  honors.  We,  thy  children,  have 
assembled  in  this  far  distant  land  to  celebrate  thy  birthday.  A 
thousand  fond  associations  throng  upon  us,  roused  by  the  spirit  of  the 
hour.  On  thy  pleasant  valleys  rest,  like  sweet  dews  of  morning,  the 
gentle  recollections  of  our  early  life ;  around  thy  hills  and  mountains 
cling,  like  gathering  mists,  the  mighty  memories  of  the  Kevolution ;  and, 
far  away  in  the  horizon  of  thy  past,  gleam,  like  thy  own  bright  northern 
lights,  the  awful  virtues  of  our  pilgrim  sires  !  But  while  we  devote  this 
day  to  the  remembrance  of  our  native  land,  we  forget  not  that  in  which 
our  happy  lot  is  cast.  We  exult  in  the  reflection,  that  though  we  count  by 
thousands  the  miles  which  separate  us  from  our  birth-place,  still  our 
country  is  the  same.  We  are  no  exiles  meeting  upon  the  banks  of  a  foreign 
river,  to  swell  its  waters  with  our  home- sick  tears.  Here  floats  the  same 
banner  which  rustled  above  our  boyish  heads,  except  that  its  mighty  folds 
are  wider,  and  its  glittering  stars  increased  in  number. 

The  sons  of  New  England  are  found  in  every  state  of  the  broad  repub- 
lic !  In  the  East,  the  South,  and  the  unbounded  West,  their  blood  mingles 
freely  with  every  kindred  current.  We  have  but  changed  our  chamber  in 
the  paternal  mansion ;  in  all  its  rooms  we  are  at  home,  and  all  who  inhabit 
it  are  our  brothers.  To  us  the  Union  ha^  but  one  domestic  hearth  ;  its 
household  gods  are  all  the  same.      Upon  us,  then,  peculiarly  devob^es  the 


X06  TIM  TWINKLETON'S  TWINS. 


duty  of  feeding  the  fires  upon  that  kindly  hearth ;  of  guarding  with  pious 
care  those  sacred  household  gods. 

We  cannot  do  with  less  than  the  whole  Union ;  to  us  it  admits  of  no 
division.  In  the  veins  of  our  childi-en  flows  Northern  and  Southern  blood ; 
how  shall  it  be  separated  ? — Who  shall  put  asunder  the  best  affections  of  the 
heart,  the  noblest  instincts  of  our  nature  ?  We  love  the  land  of  our  adop- 
tion :  so  do  we  that  of  our  bii'th.  Let  us  ever  be  true  to  both ;  and  always 
exert  ourselves  in  maintaining  the  unity  of  our  country,  the  integrity  of  the 
republic. 

Accursed,  then,  be  the  hand  put  forth  to  loosen  the  golden  cord  of 
anion !  thrice  accursed  the  traitorous  lips  which  shall  propose  its  severance ! 

But  no !  the  Union  cannot  be  dissolved.  Its  fortunes  are  too  brilliant 
to  be  marred ;  its  destinies  too  powerful  to  be  resisted.  Here  will  be  their 
greatest  triumph,  their  most  mighty  development. 

And  when,  a  century  hence,  this  Crescent  City  shall  have  filled  her 
golden  horns  : — when  within  her  broad-armed  port  shall  be  gathered  the 
products  of  the  industry  of  a  hundred  millions  of  freemen ; — when  galleries 
of  art  and  halls  of  learning  shall  have  made  classic  this  mart  of  trade ;  then 
may  the  sons  of  the  Pilgrims,  still  wandering  from  the  bleak  hills  of  the 
north,  stand  up  on  the  banks  of  the  Great  River,  and  exclaim,  with  mingled 
pride  and  wonder. — "  Lo !  this  is  our  country ; — when  did  the  world  ever 
behold  so  rich  and  magnificent  a  city — so  great  and  glorious  a  republic ! " 


TUr  TWINKLETON'S    TWINS. 


CHARLES   A.    BELL. 


YiyrM   TWINKLETON   was,    I    would 
ihika^        have  you  to  know, 
J'^^     A  cheery -faced  tailor,  of  Pinoapjilo 
J*-  Row ; 

J-     \\\a  Hympathiea  warm  a.s   the  irons  ho 
J        M.sod, 

And  his  temper  quite  even,  because  not 
abixflcd. 
As  a  fitting  reward  for  bin  kindness  of  heart, 
He  was  blessed  with  a  partner,  both  comely 

and  smart, 
And   ten  "olivo  branches," — ;four  girls  and 

six  boys — 
Oompletod  the  household,  divided  it«  joys. 


But  another  "  surprise"  was  in  store  for  Tim 

T., 
Who,   one  bright  Christmas    morning  was 

sipping  coffee. 
When  a  neighbor  (who  afted  as  nurse,)  said 

with  glee, 
"You've  just  been  iiresentrd  with  twins!  Do 

you  see?" 
"Good   gracious!"   said    Tim,    f>vorwhi'liiied 

with  surprise. 
For  be  scarce  could  In-  mailo   to  believe  his 

own  eyes ; 
His  astoni.shment  o'er,  ho  acknowledged,  of 

course, 


TIM  TWINKLETON'S  TWINS. 


107 


That  the  trouble,  indeed,  might  hav3  been  a 
deal  worse. 

The  twins  were  two  boys,  and  poor  Tim  was 

inclined 
To   believe  them   the   handsomest  pair  you 

could  find, 
But  fathers'  and  mothers'  opinions,  they  say, 
Always  favor   their  own  children  just   the 

same  way. 
"  Would  you  like  to  step  up,  sir,  to  see  Mrs. 

T.?" 
The  good  lady  said :  "she's  as  pleased  as  c-a>n 

be." 
Of  course  the  proud  father  dropp'd  both  fork 

and  knife, 
And  bounded  up  stairs  to  embrace  his  good 

wife. 

Now,  Mrs.  Tim  Twinkleton — I  should  have 

said — 
An  industrious,  frugal  life  always  had  led, 
And  kept  the  large  family  from  poverty's 

woes. 
By   washing,    and    starching,    and    ironing 

clothes. 
But,  before  the  young  twins  had  arrived  in 

the  town, 
She'd  intended  to  send   to   a  family  named 

Brown, 
Who  resided  some  distance  outside  of  the  city, 
A  basket  of  clothes  ;  so  she  thought  it  a  pity 

That  the  basket  should  meet  any  further  de- 
lay. 

And  told  Tim  to  the  depot  to  take  it  that 
day. 

He  promised  he  would,  and  began  to  make 
haste, 

For  he  found  tJiat  there  was  not  a  great  while 
to  waste, 

So,  kissing  his  wife,  he  bade  her  good-bye, 

And  out  of  the  room  in  an  instant  did  hie ; 

And  met  the  good  nurse,  on  the  stairs,  com- 
ing up 

With  the  "  orthodox  gruel,"  for  his  wife,  in 
a  cup. 

'  Where's  the  twins  ?"  said  the  tailor.  "  Oh, 
they  are  all  right," 


The  good  nurse  replied:  "they  are  lookin;^ 

so  bright ! 
I've   hushed  them  to   sleep, — they  look   so 

like  their  Pop, — 
And  I've  left  them  down  stairs,  where  they 

sleep  like  a  top." 
In  a  hurry  Tim  shouldered  the  basket,  and  got 
To  the  rail-station,  after  a  long  and  shar|i 

trot. 
And  he'd  just  enough  time  to  say  "  Brown — 

Nornstown — 
A  basket  of  clothes — '    and  then  the  train 

was  gone. 

The  light-hearted  tailor  made  haste  to  return 
For  his  heart  with  afl'ection  for  his  family 

did  burn ; 
And  it's  always  the  case,  with  a  saint  or  a 

sinner, 
Whate'er   may  occur,  he's   on  hand  for  his 

dinner. 
"  How  are  the  twins  ?"  was  his  first  inquiry ; 
"  I've  hurried  home  quickly,  my  darlings  to 

see," 
In  ecstacy,  quite  of  his  reason  bereft. 
"  Oh,  the  dear  little  angels  hain't  cried  since 

you  left ! 

"Have   you,   my  sweets?" — and   the   nurse 

turned  to  where 
Just  a  short  time  before,  were  her  objects  of 

care. 
"  Why — which   of  you   children,"  said  she, 

with  surprise, 
"  Removed  that  ar  basket? — now  don't  tell 

no  lies !" 
"  Basket!  what  basket?"  cried  Tim  with  af- 
fright ; 
j  "  Why,  the  basket  of  clothes — I  thought  it 

all  right 
To  put  near  the  fire,  and,  fearing  no  harm. 
Placed  the  twins  in  so  cozy,  to  keep  them 

quite  warm." 

Poor  Tim  roared  aloud  :  "  Why,  what  have 

I  done? 
You  surely  must  mean  what  you  say  but  in 

fun! 
That  basket',    my   twins    I   shall   ne'er  see 

again  ! 


108 


TIM  TWINKLETON'S  TWINS. 


IThy,  I  sent  them  both  off  by  the  12  o'clock  j  "  What's  the  charge?"  asked  the  tailor  of  the 
train  /"  magistrate. 


The  nurse,  at  these  words,  sank  into  a  chair 
And  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  my  precious  dears,  you 

hain't  there ! 
Go,  Twinkleton,  go,  telegraph  like  wildfire !" 
"  Why,"  said  Tim,  "  they  cant  send  the  twiri^ 

home  on  the  wire.'" 


"  I'd  like  to   find  out,  for  it's  getting  quite 

late ;" 
"  So  you  shall,"  he  replied,  "  but  don't  look 

so  meek, — 
You  deserted  your  infants, — now  hadn't  you 

cheek?" 


"Oh  dear!"  cried  poor  Tim,  getting  ready  to 

go; 

■*  Could  ever  a  body  have  met  with  such  woe? 
Sure  this  is  the  greatest  of  greatest  mistakes; 
Why.  the  turins  will  be  all  squashed  down  into 
pancakes!" 

Tim  Twinklfton  hurried,  afl  if  all  creation 

Were  aftf;r  him,  quick,  on  his  way  to  the  sta- 
tion. 

"  Tlial's  the  man, — O  you  wretch  !"  and,  ti^^lit 
a-f  a  rasp, 

Poor  Tim  found  himself  in  a  constable's 
gra.'fp. 

"Ah!  ha!  I  have  got  yer,  nov/  don't  say  a 

word, 
Yer  know  very  well  about  what  has  occurred  ; 
Come  'long  to  the  station  house,   hurry  up 

now. 
Or  'twnon  you  and  mc  there'll  be  a  big  row." 


Now  it  happened   that,  during   the  trial  oi 

the  case. 
An  acquaintance  of  Tim's  had  stepped  into 

the  place. 
And  he  quickly  perceived,  when  he  hoard  in 

detail 
The  facts  of  the  case,  and  said  he'd  go  bail 
To  any  amount,  for  good  Tim  Twinkleton, 
For  he  knew  he  was  innocent,  "  sure  as  a  gun.' 
And  the  railway-clerk's  evidence,  given  in 

detail, 
Was  not  quite  sufficient  to  send  him  to  jail. 

It  was  to  effect,  that  the  squalling  began 
Just  after  the  baskft  in  the  bagpagc  van 
Had  been  placed   liy  Tim  T.,   wlio  solemnly 

swore 
That  he  was  qtiite  ignorant  of  their  |iresenct 

before. 
So  the  basket  wjw  brought  to  tlie  magistrate'; 

sight, 


THE  TWO  ROADS.  -  iQQ 


And  the  twins  on  the  top  of  the  clothes 
looked  so  bright, 

That  the  magistrate's  heart  of  a  sudden  en- 
larged, 

And  he  ordered  that  Tim  Twinkleton  be  dis- 
charged. 


Tim  grasped  up  the  basket  and  ran  'or  dear 
life, 

1  when  he  reached  home  he  first  ask.^v.. 
for  his  wife ;  train 


But  the  nurse  said  with  joy,  "  Since  you  left 

she  has  slept, 
And  from  her  the  mistakes  of  to-day  I  have 

kept." 
Poor  Tim,  and  the  nurse,  and  all  the  small 

fry, 
Before  taking  dinner,  indulged  in  a  cry. 
The  twins  are  now  grown,  and  they  time  and 


life,  again 

And  when  he  reached  home  he  first  ask.^v..      Relate  their    excursion    on    the    railway 


THE  TWO  ROADS. 


RICHTER. 

^I^T  was  New  Year's  night.  An  aged  man  was  standing  at  a  windo'Vf. 
§1^  He  mournfully  raised  his  eyes  towards  the  deep  blue  sky,  where  the 
Jl^  stars  were  floating  like  white  lilies  on  the  surface  of  a  clear,  calm 
lake.  Then  he  cast  them  on  the  earth,  where  few  more  helpless 
beings  than  himself  were  moving  towards  their  inevitable  goal — the 
tomb.  Already  he  had  passed  sixty  of  the  stages  which  lead  to  it, 
and  he  had  brought  from  his  journey  nothing  but  errors  and  remorse. 
His  health  was  destroyed,  his  mind  unfurnished,  his  heart  sorrowful,  and 
his  old  age  devoid  of  comfort. 

The  days  of  his  youth  rose  up  in  a  vision  before  him,  and  he  recalled 
the  solemn  moment  when  his  father  had  placed  him  at  the  entrance  of  two 
roads,  one  leading  into  a  peaceful,  sunny  land,  covered  with  a  fertile  har- 
vest, and  resounding  with  soft,  sweet  songs ;  while  the  other  conducted 
the  wanderer  into  a  deep,  dark  cave,  whence  there  was  no  issue,  where 
poison  flowed  instead  of  water,  and  where  serpents  hissed  and  crawled. 

He  looked  towards  the  sky,  and  cried  out  in  his  anguish  :  "0  youth, 
return !  0  my  father,  place  me  once  more  at  the  crossway  of  life,  that  I 
may  choose  the  better  road ! "  But  the  days  of  his  youth  had  passed  away, 
and  his  parents  were  with  the  departed.  He  saw  wandering  lights  float 
over  dark  marshes,  and  then  disappear.  "Such,"  he  said,  "were  the  days 
of  my  wasted  life!"  He  saw  a  star  shoot  from  heaven,  and  vanish  in 
darkness  athwart  the  church-yard.  "Behold  an  emblem  of  myself !  "  he 
exclaimed;  and  the  sharp  arrows  of  unavailing  remorse  struck  him  to 
the  heart. 

Then  he  remembered  his  early  companions,  who  had  entered  life  with 
8 


no 


THE  QUAKER  WIDOW. 


tiim,  but  who  having  trod  the  paths  of  vh"tue  and  industry,  were  no\/{ 
happy  and  honored  on  this  New  Year's  night.  The  clock  in  the  high 
church-tower  struck,  and  the  sound,  falUng  on  his  ear,  recalled  tlie  many 
tokens  of  the  love  of  his  parents  for  him,  their  erring  son ;  the  lessons 
they  had  taught  him;  the  prayers  they  had  offered  up  in  his  behalf. 
Overwhelmed  with  shame  and  grief,  he  dared  no  longer  look  towards  that 
heaven  where  they  dwelt.  His  darkened  eyes  dropped  tears,  and,  with 
one  despairing  effort,  he  cried  aloud,  "  Come  back,  my  early  days !  Come 
back ! " 

And  his  youth  did  return ;  for  all  this  had  been  but  a  dream,  visiting 
his  slumbers  on  New  Year's  night.  He  was  still  young,  his  errors  only 
were  no  dream.  He  thanked  God  fervently  that  time  was  still  his  own ; 
that  he  had  not  yet  entered  the  deep,  dark  cavern,  but  that  he  was  free  to 
tread  the  road  leading  to  the  peaceful  land  where  sunny  harvests  wave. 

Ye  who  still  linger  on  the  threshold  of  life,  doubting  which  path  to 
choose,  remember  that  when  years  shall  be  passed,  and  your  feet  shall 
stumble  on  the  dark  mountain,  you  will  cry  bitterly,  but  cry  in  vain,  "0 
youth  return  !  Oh,  give  me  back  my  early  days  ! " 


THE  QUAKER   WIDOW. 


BAYARD    TAYLOB 

j^IIEE  finds  me  in  the  ganlcn,  ILuinali ; 
come  in  !     'Tis  kind  of  thee 
!^^  To  wiiit  until  the  Friends  were  gone 


who  came  to  comfort  me, 
J-  The  still  and  quiet  company  a  peace 

T  may  give  indeed, 

But  blessed  is  the  single  heart  that 

comes  to  us  at  need. 

Come,  sit   thee   down!     Il'-re   is   the   Ixinch 

where  Benjamin  would  sit 
On  First-day  afternoons  in  spring,  and  watch 

the  swallows  flit; 
He  loved  to  smell  the  sprouting  box,  and  hoar 

the  pleasant  bees 
tio  humming  round  the  lilacs  and  through 

the  apple  trees. 

I  lliiiik  beloved  the  spring;  not  that  he  cared 
lor  flowers  -.  moat  men 


Think  siu'h  tilings  foolishness ;  but  we  were 

first  acquainted  then. 
One  spring;  the  next  he  spoke  his  iniml  ;  tlie 

third  I  was  his  wife. 
And  in  the  spring  (it  happened  so)  our  cliil 

dren  entered  life 


He  was  but  .<eventy-five :   I  ilid  not  think  to 

lay  him  yet 
In    Kennett  graveyard,  where   at   Monthly 

Meeting  first  we  met. 
The  Father's  mercy  shows  in  this :  'tis  bettor 

I  should  III' 
Picked  out  to  bear  the  heavy  cross — alone  in 

ago — than  h(!. 

We've  lived  together  fifty  years  ;  it  seems  but 

one  long  day, 
One  quiet  Saliiiatb  of  the  heart,  till  he  waa 

called  away  ; 


THE  QUAKER  WIDOW. 


11] 


And  as  we  bring  from  Meeting-time  a  sweet 

contentment  home, 
So,  Hannah,  I  have  store  of  peace  for  all  the 

days  to  come. 

I  mind  (for  I  can  tell  thee  now)  how  hard  it 

was  to  know 
If  I  had  heard  the  spirit  right,  that  told  me  I 

should  go ; 
For  father  had  a  deep  concern  upon  his  mind 

that  day. 
But  mother  spoke  for  Benjamin  ;   she  knew 

what  best  to  say. 

Then  she  was  still :  they  sat  awhile  :  at  last 
she  spoke  again, 

"  The  Lord  incline  thee  to  the  right !"  and 
"  Thou  shalt  have  him,  Jane  !" 

My  father  said.  I  cried.  Indeed,  'twas  not 
the  least  of  shocks. 

For  Benjamin  was  Hicksite,  and  father  Or- 
thodox. 

I  thought  of  this  ten  years  ago,  when  daugh- 
ter Ruth  we  lost : 

Her  husband's  of  the  world,  and  yet  I  could 
not  see  her  crossed. 

She  wears,  thee  knows,  the  gayest  gowns,  she 
hears  a  hireling  priest ; 

Ah,  dear !  the  cross  was  ours ;  her  life's  a 
happy  one,  at  least. 

Perhaps  she'll  wear  a  plainer  dress  when  she's 

as  old  as  I. 
Would  thee  believe  it,  Hannah  ?  once  I  felt 

temptation  nigh ! 
My  wedding-gown  was  ashen  silk,  too  simple 

for  my  taste : 
I  wanted  lace  around  the  neck,  and  a  ribbon 

at  the  waist. 

How  strange  it  seemed  to*  sit  with  him  upon 

the  women's  side'. 
I  did  not  dare  to  lift  my  eyes :  I  felt  more 

fear  than  pride, 
rni,  "  in  the  presence  of  the  Lord,"  he  said, 

and  then  there  came 
k  holy  strength  upon  my  heart,  and  I  could 

say  the  same. 


I  used  to  blush  when  he  came  near,  but  tin-n 

I  showed  no  sign  ; 
With  all  the  meeting  looking  on,  I  held  his 

hand  in  mine. 
It  seemed  my  bashfulness  was  gone,  now  I 

was  his  for  life  : 
Thee  knows  the  feeling,  Hannah  ;  theo,  too, 

hast  been  a  wife. 

As  home  we  rode,  I  saw  no  fields  look  half  so 

green  as  ours ; 
The  woods  were  coming  into  leaf,  the  mea 

dows  full  of  flowers  ; 
The  neighbors  met  us  in  the  lane,  and  every 

face  was  kind  ; 
'Tis   strange    how   lively   everything   comes 

back  upon  my  mind. 

I  see,  as  plain  as  thee  sits  there,  the  wedding 

dinner  spread  ; 
At  our  own  table  we  were  guests,  with  father 

at  the  head. 
And  Dinah  Passmore  helped  us  both :  'twas 

she  stood  up  with  me. 
And  Abner  Jones  with  Benjamin  :  and  now 

they're  gone,  all  three  ! 

It  is  not  right  to  wish  for  death ;  the  Lord 
disposes  best. 

His  Spirit  comes  to  quiet  hearts,  and  fits  them 
for  His  rest ; 

And  that  He  halved  our  little  flock  was  mer- 
ciful, I  see : 

For  Benjamin  has  two  in  heaven,  and  two 
are  left  with  me. 

Eusebius  never  cared  to  farm  ;   'twas  not  his 

call  in  truth, 
And  I  must  rent  the  dear  old  place,  and  go  to 

daughter  Ruth. 
Thee'U  say  her  ways  are  not  like  mine  ;  young 

people  now-a-days 
Have  fallen  sadly  off,  I  think,  from  all  the 

good  old  ways. 

But  Ruth  is  still  a  Frierd  at  heart ;  she  keeps 

the  simple  tongue, 
The  cheerful,  kindly  nature  we  loved  when 

she  was  young ; 


Il2 


MR.  STIVER'S  HORSE. 


And  it  was  brought  upon  my  mind,  remem- 
bering her,  of  late. 

That  we  on  dress  and  outward  things  perhaps 
lay  too  much  weight. 

I  once  heard  Jesse   Kersey   say,    "  a  spirit 

clothed  with  grace, 
And  pure,  almost,  as  angels  are,  may  have  a 

homely  face." 
And  dress  may  be  of  less  account ;  the  Lord 

will  look  within : 


The  soul  it  is  that  testifies  of  righteousness  oi 
sin. 

Thee  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  Ruth  ;  she's  anx- 
ious I  should  go, 

And  she  will  do  her  duty  as  a  daughter  should 
I  know. 

'Tis  hard  to  change  so  late  in  life,  but  we  must 
be  resigned ; 

The  Lord  looks  down  contentedly  upon  a 
willing  mind. 


MR.  STIVERS  HORSE. 


J.  M.  BAILEY. 


vfTl^HE  other  morning  at  breakfast,   Mrs.  Perkins  observed  that  Mr. 
^i^    Stiver,  in  whose  house  we  live,  had  been  called  away,  and  wanted 
^'"••"'i     to  know  if  I  would  see  to  his  horse  through  the  day. 

I  knew  that  Mr.  Stiver  owned  a  horse,  because  I  occasionally 
saw  him  drive  out  of  the  yard,  and  I  saw  the  stable  every  day ;  but 

what  kind  of  a  horse  I  didn't  know.  I  never  went  into  the  stable 
for  two  reasons :  in  the  first  place,  I  had  no  desire  to ;  and  secondly, 
I  didn't  know  as  the  horse  cared  particularly  for  company. 

I  never  took  care  of  a  horse  in  my  life,  and  had  I  been  of  a  less 
hopeful  nature,  the  charge  Mr.  Stiver  had  left  with  me  might  have  had 
a  very  depressing  effect ;  but  I  told  Mrs.  Perkins  I  would  do  it. 

"You  know  how  to  take  care  of  a  horse,  don't  you ?"  said  she. 

I  gave  her  a  reassuring  wink.  In  fact,  I  knew  so  little  about  it  that 
I  didn't  think  it  safe  to  converse  more  fluently  than  by  winks. 

After  breakfast  I  seized  a  toothpick  and  walked  out  toward  the 
stable.  There  wa.s  nothing  particular  to  do,  as  Stiver  had  given  liim  his 
breakfast,  and  I  found  him  eating  it ;  so  I  looked  around.  The  horse 
Iwkod  around,  too,  and  stared  pretty  hard  at  mo.  There  was  but  little 
said  on  cither  side.  I  hunted  up  the  location  of  \\\o.  feed,  and  then  .sat 
down  on  a  peck  mea.sure,  and  fell  to  studying  the  bcjist.  There  is  a  wide 
difference  in  horses.  Some  of  them  will  kick  you  over  and  never  look 
around  to  sec  what  becomes  of  you.  I  don't  like  a  disposition  like  that, 
and  I  wondered  if  Stiver's  horse  was  one  of  them. 

When  I  came  homo  at  noon  T  went  straight  to   the   stable.      The 


MR.  STIVER'S  HORSE. 


116 


animal  was  there  all  right.  Stiver  hadn't  told  me  what  to  give  him  for 
dinner,  and  I  had  not  given  the  subject  any  thought;  but  I  went  to  the 
oat  box  and  filled  the  peck  measure,  and  sallied  up  to  the  manger. 

When  he  saw  the  oats  he  almost  smiled;  this  pleased  and  amused 
him.  I  emptied  them  into  the  trough,  and  left  him  above  me  to  admire  the 
way  I  parted  my  hair  behind.  I  just  got  my  head  up  in  time  to  save 
the  whole  of  it.  He  had  his  ears  back,  bis  mouth  open,  and  looked  as 
if  he  were  on  the  point  of  committing  murder.  I  went  out  and  filled  the 
measure  again,  and  climbed  up  the  side  of  the  stall  and  emptied  it  on  top 
of  him.  He  brought  his  head  up  so  suddenly  at  this  that  I  immediately 
got  down,  letting  go  of  everything  to  do  it.  I  struck  on  the  sharp  edge 
of  a  barrel,  rolled  over  a  couple  of  times,  and 
then  disappeared  under  a  hay-cutter.  The  peck 
measure  went  down  on  the  other  side,  and  got 
mysteriously  tangled  up  in  that  animal's  heels, 
and  he  went  to  work  at  it,  and  then  ensued  the 
most  dreadful  noise  I  ever  heard  in  all  my  life, 
and  I  have  been  married  eighteen  years. 

It  did  seem  as  if  I  never  would  get  out  from 
under  that  hay-cutter;  and  all  the  while  I  was 
struggling  and  wrenching  myself  and  the  cut- 
ter apart,  that  awful  beast  was  kicking  around 
in  that  stall,  and  making  the  most  appalling 
sound  imaginable. 

When  I  got  out  I  found  Mrs.  Perkins  at  the 
door.  She  had  heard  the  racket,  and  had  sped 
out  to  the  stable,  her  only  thought  being  of  me 
and  three  stove-lids  which  she  had  under  her 
arm,  and  one  of  which  she  was  about  to  fire  at 
the  beast. 

This  made  me  mad. 
"Go  away,  you  unfortunate  idiot,"  I  shouted; 
"do  you  want  to  knock  my  brains  out?"  For 
I  remembered  seeing  Mrs.  Perkins  sling  a  mis- 
sile once  before,  and  that  I  nearly  lost  an  eye 
by  the  operation,  although  standing  on  the 
other  side  of  the  house  at  the  time. 

She  retired  at  once.  And  at  the  same  time  the  animal  quieted 
down,  but  there  was  nothing  left  of  that  peck  measure,  not  even  t-he 
maker's  name. 


114 


MK.  STIVER'S  HORSE. 


I  followed  Mrs.  Perkiiis  into  the  house,  and  had  her  do  me  up,  and  then 
sai  down  in  a  chair,  and  fell  into  a  profound  strain  of  meditation.  After 
a  while  I  felt  better,  and  went  out  to  the  stable  again.  The  horse  was 
leaning  against  the  stable  stall,  with  eyes  half-closed,  and  appeared  to  be 
very  mucli  engrossed  in  thought. 

"Step  off  to  the  left,"  I  said,  rubbing  his  back. 

He  didn't  step.  I  got  the  pitchfork  and  punched  him  in  the  leg  with 
the  handle.  He  immediately  raised  up  both  hind-legs  at  once,  and  that 
fork  flew  out  of  my  hands,  and  went  rattling  up  against  the  timbers  above, 
and  came  down  again  in  an  instant,  the  end  of  the  handle  rapping  me 
with  such  force  on  the  top  of  the  head  that  I  sat  right  down  on  the  floor 
under  the  impression  that  I  was  standing  in  front  of  a  drug  store  in  the 
evening.  I  went  back  to  the  house  and  got  some  more  stuff  on  me.  But 
I  couldn't  keep  awcxy  from  that  stable.  I  went  out  there  again.  The 
thought  struck  me  that  what  the  horse  wanted  was  exercise.  If  that 
thought  had  been  an  empty  glycerine  can,  it  would  have  saved  a  windfall 
of  luck  for  me. 

But  exercise  would  tone  him  down,  and  exercise  him  I  should.  I 
laughed  to  myself  to  think  how  I  would  trounce  him  around  the  yard. 
I  didn't  laugh  again  that  afternoon.  I  got  him  unhitched,  and  then  won- 
dered how  I  was  to  get  him  out  of  the 
stall  without  carrying  him  out.  I 
pushed,  but  he  wouldn't  budge.  I 
stood  looking  at  him  in  the  face,  think- 
ing of  something  to  say,  when  he  sud- 
denly solved  the  difficulty  by  veering 
and  plunging  for  the  door.  I  followed, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  because  1  had 
a  tight  hold  on  the  rope,  and  hit  about 
every  partition  stud  worth  speaking  of 
on  that  side  of  the  barn.  Mrs.  Per- 
kins was  at  the  window  and  saw  us 
coino  out  of  tlio  door.  She  subse- 
quently remarked  that  wo  came  out 
skipping  like  two  innocent  children, 
The  skipping  was  entirely  unintentional  on  my  part.  I  felt  as  if  1  stood 
on  the  verge  of  eternity.  My  legs  may  have  skipped,  but  my  mind  wai.- 
filled  with  awe. 

1  took  that  animal  out  to  exercise  him.  Iht  exercised  me  before  I 
^ot  through  with   it.     lie  went  around  a   lew  times  in  a  circle;  then  ho 


lih    KAhlit  l.-hO    .Mh. 


MR.  STIVER'S  HORSE.  H^ 


stopped  suddenly,  spread  out  his  fore-legs  and  looked  at  me.  Then  he 
leaned  forward  a  little,  and  hoisted  both  hind-legs,  and  threw  about  twc 
coal-hods  of  mud  over  a  line  full  of  clothes  Mrs.  Perkins  had  just  hung 
out. 

That  excellent  lady  had  taken  a  position  at  the  window,  and  when- 
ever the  evolutions  of  the  awful  beast  permitted,  I  caught  a  glance  at  her 
features.  She  appeared  to  be  very  much  interested  in  the  proceedings ; 
but  the  instant  that  the  mud  flew,  she  disappeared  from  the  window,  and 
a  moment  later  she  appeared  on  the  stoop  with  a  long  poker  in  her 
hand,  and  fire  enough  in  her  eye  to  heat  it  red-hot. 

Just  then  Stiver's  horse  stood  up  on  his  hind-legs  and  tried  to  hug 
me  with  the  others.  This  scared  me.  A  horse  never  shows  his  streno-th 
to  such  advantage  as  when  he  is  coming  down  on  you  like  a  frantic  pile- 
driver.     I  instantly  dodged,  and  the  cold  sweat  fairly  boiled  out  of  me. 

It  suddenly  came  over  me  that  I  once  figured  in  a  similar  position 
years  ago.  My  grandfather  owned  a  little  white  horse  that  would  get  up 
from  a  meal  at  Delmonico's  to  kick  the  President  of  the  United  States. 
He  sent  me  to  the  lot  one  day,  and  unhappily  suggested  that  I  often  went 
after  that  horse,  and  suffered  all  kinds  of  defeat  in  getting  him  out  of  the 
pasture,  but  I  had  never  tried  to  ride  him.  Heaven  knows  I  never 
thought  of  it.  I  had  my  usual  trouble  with  him  that  day.  He  tried  to 
jump  over  me,  and  push  me  down  in  a  mud  hole,  and  finally  got  up  on  his 
hind-legs  and  came  waltzing  after  me  with  facilities  enough  to  convert  me 
into  hash,  but  I  turned  and  just  made  for  that  fence  with  all  the  agony  a 
prospect  of  instant  death  could  crowd  into  me.  If  our  candidate  for  the 
Presidency  had  run  one-half  as  well,  there  would  be  seventy-five  post- 
masters in  Danbury  to-day,  instead   of  one. 

I  got  him  out  finally,  and  then  he  was  quiet  enough,  and  took  him  up 
alongside  the  fence  and  got  on  him.  He  stopped  an  instant,  one  brief 
instant,  and  then  tore  off  down  the  road  at  a  frightful  speed.  I  laid  down 
on  him  and  clasped  my  hands  tightly  around  his  neck,  and  thought  of  my 
home.  When  we  got  to  the  stable  I  was  confident  he  would  stop,  but  he 
didn't.  He  drove  straight  at  the  door.  It  was  a  low  door,  just  high 
enough  to  permit  him  to  go  in  at  lightning  speed,  but  there  was  no  room 
for  me.  I  saw  if  I  struck  that  stable  the  struggle  would  be  a  very  brief 
one.  I  thought  this  all  over  in  an  instant,  and  then,  spreading  out  my 
arms  and  legs,  emitted  a  scream,  and  the  next  moment  I  was  bounding 
about  in  the  filth  of  that  stable  yard.  All  this  passed  through  my  mind 
as  Stiver's  horse  went  up  into  the  air.  It  frightened  Mrs.  Perkins  dread- 
fully. 


116 


WHISTLING  IN  HEAVEN. 


"  Why,  you  old  fool ! "  she  said,  •'  why  don't  you  get  rid  of  him  ?" 

"  How  can  I  ?  ''   said  I  in  desperation. 

"Why,  there  are  a  thousand  ways,"  said  she. 

This  is  just  like  a  woman.  How  different  a  statesman  would  have 
answered. 

But  I  could  only  think  of  two  ways  to  dispose  of  the  beast,  I  could 
either  swallow  him  where  he  stood  and  then  sit  down  on  him,  or  I  could 
crawl  inside  of  him  and  kick  him  to  death. 

But  I  was  saved  either  of  these  expedients  by  his  coming  toward  me  so 
abruptly  that  I  dropped  the  rope  in  terror,  and  then  he  turned  about, 
and,  kicking  me  full  of  mud,  shot  for  the  gate,  ripping  the  clothes-line  in 
two,  and  went  on  down  the  street  at  a  horrible  gallop,  with  two  of  Mrs. 
Perkins's  garments,  which  he  hastily  snatched  from  the  line,  floating  over 
his  neck  in  a  very  picturesque  manner. 

So  I  was  afterwards  told.  I  was  too  full  of  mud  myself  to  see  the 
way  into  the  house. 

Stiver  got  his  horse  all  right,  and  stays  at  home  to  care  for  him. 
Mrs.  Perkins  has  gone  to  her  mother's  to  recuperate,  and  I  am  healing  as 
fast  as  possible. 


WIILSTLING  IN  HEA  VEN. 


W.  S.  RALPH. 


''^'R'E   BurpriH(!'l   tlial  I    wi-r  hIiouM 

Hay  HO  ? 

.luHt  wait  till  tho  rftawon  I'vo  given 

Why  I  Hay  I  nhan't  care  for  the  music, 

ITnlePH  there  is  wliiHtling  in  heaven. 

Then  you'll  think  it  no  very  great  wonder, 

Nor  80  strange,  nor  bo  bol'l  a  conceit, 
TTiat  unlcHH  there'8  a  boy  there  a  whiHtling, 
It«  muaic  will  not  be  complete. 


It  WiiH  late  in  the  autumn  of '40; 

We  hafl  come  from  our  far  EaHtern  home 
.TuHt  in  HCii.'^on  to  l)uil<l  us  a  cabin, 

Ere  the  cold  of  the  winter  should  come; 
And  wii  lived  all  the  while  in  our  wagon 

That  husband  wa,s  clearing  the  jdaco 
Where  the  house  wa.s  to  stand  ;  and  the  clear- 
ing 

And  building  it  took  many  days. 


WHISTLING  IX  HEAVEN. 


117 


So  that  our  beads  were  scarce  sheltered 

In  under  its  roof,  when  our  store 
Of  provisions  was  almost  exhausted 

And  husband  must  journey  for  more; 
And  the  nearest  place  where  he  could  get  them 

Was  yet  such  a  distance  away, 
That  it  forced  him  from  home  to  be  absent 

At  least  a  whole  night  and  a  day. 

You  see,  we'd  but  two  or  three  neighbors, 

And  the  nearest  was  more  than  a  mile ; 
And  we  hadn't  found  time  yet  to  know  them, 

For  we  had  been  busy  the  while. 
And  the  man  who  had  helped  at  the  raising 

Just  staid  till  the  job  was  well  done  ; 
And  as  soon  as  his  money  was  paid  him, 

Had  shouldered  his  axe  and  had  gone. 

Well,  husband  just  kissed  me  and  started — 

I  could  scarcely  suppress  a  deep  groan 
At  the  thought  of  remaining  with  baby 

So  long  in  the  house  all  alone  ; 
For,  my  dear,  I  was  childish  and  timid. 

And  braver  ones  might  well  have  feared. 
For  the  wild  wolf  was  often  heard  howling, 

And  savages  sometimes  appeared. 

But  I  smothered  my  grief  and  my  terror 

Till  husband  was  off  on  his  ride, 
And  then  in  my  arms  I  took  Josey, 

And  all  the  day  long  sat  and  cried. 
As  I  thought  of  the  long,  dreary  hours 

When  the  darkness  of  night  should  fall. 
And  I  was  so  utterly  helpless, 

With  DO  one  in  reach  of  my  call. 

And  when  the  night  came  with  its  terrors 

To  hide  ev'ry  ray  of  the  light, 
I  hung  up  a  quilt  by  the  window, 

And  almost  dead  with  affright, 
I  kneeled  by  the  side  of  the  cradle. 

Scarce  daring  to  draw  a  full  breath. 
Lest  the  baby  should  wake,  and  its  crying 

Should  bring  us  a  horrible  death. 

There  I  knelt  until  late  in  the  evening. 
And  scarcely  an  inch  had  I  stirred, 

When  suddenly,  far  in  the  distance, 
A  sound  as  of  whistling  I  heard, 


I  started  up  dreadfully  frightened, 
For  fear  'twas  an  Indian's  call; 

And  then  very  soon  I  remembered 
The  red  man  ne'er  whistles  at  all. 

And  when  I  was  sure  'twas  a  white  man 

I  thought,  were  he  coming  for  ill, 
He'd  surely  approach  with  more  caul  ion  - 

Would  come  without  warning,  and  still. 
Then  the  sounds,  coming  nearer  and  nca  er 

Took  the  form  of  a  tune  light  and  gay. 
And  I  knew  I  needn't  fear  evil 

From  one  who  could  whistle  tliat  way. 

Very  soon  I  heard  footsteps  approaching, 

Then  came  a  peculiar  dull  thump. 
As  if  some  one  was  heavily  striking 

An  axe  in  the  top  of  a  stump ; 
And  then,  in  another  brief  moment, 

There  came  a  light  tap  on  the  door. 
When  quickly  I  undid  the  fast'ning, 

And  in  stepped  a  boy  and  before' 

There  was  either  a  question  or  answer. 

Or  either  had  time  to  speak, 
I  just  threw  my  glad  arms  around  him. 

And  gave  him  a  kiss  on  the  cheek. 
Then  I  started  back,  scared  at  my  boldness, 

But  he  only  smiled  at  my  fright. 
As  he  said,  "  I'm  your  neighbor's  boy,  Alick, 

Come  to  tarry  with  you  through  the  nigh* 

"  We  saw  your  husband  go  eastward, 

And  made  up  our  minds  where  he'd  gone^ 
And  I  said  to  the  rest  of  our  people, 

'  That  woman  is  there  all  alone. 
And  I  venture  she's  awfully  lonesome, 

And  though  she  may  have  no  great  feax^ 
I  think  she  would  feel  a  bit  safer 

If  only  a  boy  were  but  near.' 

"  So,  taking  ray  axe  on  my  shoulder. 

For  fear  that  a  savage  might  stray 
Across  my  path  and  need  scalping, 

I  started  right  down  this  way ; 
And  coming  in  sight  of  the  cabin. 

And  thinking  to  save  you  alarm, 
I  whistled  a  tune,  just  to  show  yoQ 

I  didn't  intend  any  harm. 


118 


GOOD-NIGHT,  PAPA. 


"  And  so  here  I  am,  at  your  service  ; 

But  if  you  don't  want  me  to  stay, 
Why,  all  you  need  do  is  to  say  so. 

And  should'ring  my  axe,  I'll  away." 
I  dropped  in  a  chair  and  near  fainted, 

Just  at  thought  of  his  leaving  me  then, 
And  his  eye  gave  a  knowing  bright  twinkle, 

As  he  said,  "  I  guess  I'll  remain." 

And  then  I  just  sat  there  and  told  him 
How  terribly  frightened  I'd  been. 

How  his  face  was  to  me  the  most  welcome 
Of  any  I  ever  had  seen ; 


And  then  I  lay  down  with  the  baby, 
And  slept  all  the  blessed  night  through. 

For  I  felt  I  was  safe  from  all  danger 
Near  so  brave  a  young  fellow  and  true. 

So  now,  my  dear  friend,  do  you  wonder. 

Since  such  a  good  reason  I've  given, 
Why  I  think  it  the  sweetest  music, 

And  wish  to  hear  wliistling  in  heaven  ? 
Yes,  often  I've  said  so  in  earnest, 

And  now  what  I've  said  I  repeat, 
That  unless  there's  a  boy  there  a-whistling. 

Its  music  will  not  be  complete. 


GOOD-NIGHT,  PAPA. 


pHE  words  of  a  blue-eyed  child  as  she  kissed  her  chubby  hand  and 
looked  down  the  stairs,  "  Good-night,  papa ;  Jessie  see  you  in  the 

^     morning." 

It  came  to  be  a  settled  thing,  and  every  evening  as  the  mother 

slipped  the  white  night-gown  over  the  plump  shoulders,  the  little  one 

stopped  on  the  stairs  and  sang  out,  "  Good-night,  papa,"  and  as  the 
father  heard  the  silvery  accents  of  the  child,  he  came,  and  taking  the 
cherub  in  his  arms,  kissed  her  tenderly,  while  the  mother's  eyes  filled,  and 
a  swift  prayer  went  up,  for.  strange  to  say,  this  man  who  loved  his  child 
with  all  the  warmth  of  his  great  noble  nature,  had  one  fault  to  mar  his 
manliness.  From  his  youth  he  loved  the  wine-cup.  Genial  in  spirit,  and 
with  a  fascination  of  manner  that  won  him  friends,  he  could  not  resist  when 
surrounded  by  his  boon  companions.  Thus  his  home  was  darkened,  the 
heart  of  his  wife  bruised  and  bleeding,  the  future  of  his  child  shadowed. 

Three  years  had  the  winsome  prattle  of  the  baby  crept  into  the 
avenues  of  the  father's  heart,  keeping  him  closer  to  his  home,  but  still  the 
fatal  cup  was  in  his  hand.  Ahia  for  frail  humanity,  insensible  to  the  calls 
of  love!  With  unutterable  tenderness  God  saw  there  was  no  other  way; 
thi.s  Hither  was  dear  to  him,  the  purchiv^c  of  his  Son;  he  could  not  see  him 
perish,  and,  calling  a  swift  messenger,  he  said,  "Speed  thee  to  eaitli  and 
bring  the  babe." 

"  Good-night,  f)apa,"  sounded  from  the  stair.s.  What  was  there  in 
the  voice?  was  it  the  echo  of  the  mandate,  "  I'l-ing  me  tlie])abe?" — a 
aUvery  plaintive  sound,  a  lingering  music  that   touched  the  father's  hearty 


GOOD-NIGHT,  PAPA.  X19 


as  when  a  cloud  crosses  the  sun.  "  Good-night,  my  darling;  "  Ijut  his  lips 
quivered  and  his  broad  brow  grew  pale.  "  Is  Jessie  sick,  mother  ?  Her 
cheeks  are  flushed,  and  her  eyes  have  a  strange  light." 

"  Not  sick,"  and  the  mother  stooped  to  kiss  the  flushed  brow;  "she 
may  have  played  too  much.     Pet  is  not  sick  ?  " 

"Jessie  tired,  m.amma;  good-night,  papa;  Jessie  see  you  in  the 
morning." 

"  That  is  all,  she  is  only  tired,"  said  the  mother  as  she  took  the  small 
hand.  Another  kiss  and  the  father  turned  away;  but  his  heart  was  not 
satisfied. 

Sweet  lullabies  were  sung;  but  Jessie  was  restless  and  (^ould  not  sleep. 
"Tell  me  a  story,  mamma;"  and  the  mother  told  her  of  the  blessed  babe 
that  Mary  cradled,  following  along  the  story  till  the  child  had  grown  to 
walk  and  play.  The  blue,  wide  open  eyes,  filled  with  a  strange  light,  as 
though  she  saw  and  comprehended  more  than  the  mother  knew. 

That  night  the  father  did  not  visit  the  saloon ;  tossing  on  his  bed, 
starting  from  a  feverish  sleep  and  bending  over  the  crib,  the  long  weary  houi's 
passed.      Morning  revealed  the  truth — Jessie  wels  smitten  with  the  fever. 

"  Keep  her  quiet,"  the  doctor  said  ;  "  a  few  days  of  good  nursing,  and 
she  will  be  all  right." 

Words  easily  said ;  but  the  father  saw  a  look  on  that  sweet  face  such 
as  he  had  seen  before.     He  knew  the  messenger  was  at  the  door. 

Night  came.  "  Jessie  is  sick ;  can't  say  good-night,  papa ;"  and  the 
little  clasping  fingers  clung  to  the  father's  hand. 

"0  God,  spare  her!  I  cannot,  cannot  bear  it!  "  was  wrung  from  his 
sufferinsc  heart. 

Days  passed ;  the  mother  was  tireless  in  her  watching.  With  her 
babe  cradled  in  her  arms  her  heart  was  slow  to  take  in  the  truth,  doing 
her  best  to  solace  the  father's  heart ;  "  A  light  case !  the  doctor  says.  Pet 
will  soon  be  well." 

Calmly  as  one  who  knows  his  doom,  the  father  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
hot  brow,  looked  into  the  eyes  even  then  covered  with  the  film  of  death, 
and  with  all  the  strength  of  his  manhood  cried,  "  Spare  her,  O  God !  spare 
my  child,  and  I  will  follow  thee." 

With  a  last  painful  effort  the  parched  lips  opened :  "  Jessie's  too  sick ; 
can't  say  good-night,  papa — in  the  morning."  There  was  a  convulsive 
shudder,  and  the  clasping  fingers  relaxed  their  hold ;  the  messenger  had 
taken  the  child. 

Months  have  passed.  Jessie's  crib  stands  by  the  side  of  her  father's 
couch ;  her  blue  embroidered  dress  and  white  hat  hang  in  his  closet ;  her 


120 


CHARLEY'S  OFINIOX  OF  THE  BABY. 


boots  with  the  print  of  her  feet  just  as  she  had  last  worn  them,  as  sacred 
in  his  eyes  as  they  are  in  the  mother's.  Not  dead,  but  merely  risen  to  a 
higher  life;  while,  sounding  down  from  the  upper  stairs,  "Good-night, 
papa,  Jessie  see  you  in  the  morning,"  has  been  the  means  of  winning  to  « 
better  way  one  who  had  shown  himself  deaf  to  every  former  call. 


CH ABLETS  OPINION  OF  THE  BABY. 


.  .^A>  , 


■UZZER'S  bought  a  baby, 
Ittle  bit's  of  zmg; 
Zink  I  mos  could  put  him 
Froo  my  rubber  ring. 


v^. 


Ain't  he  awful  nj^ly  ? 

Ain't  he  awful  pinV  ? 
JuB  come  down  from  Heaven, 

Dat'.s  a  fib,  I  zink. 


Doctor  told  anozzer 

Great  big  awful  lie; 

Nose  ain't  out  of  joyent, 
Dat  ain't  why  I  cry. 


Zink  I  ought  to  love  hiru  ! 

No,  I  won't!  so  zere; 
Na.ssy,  crying  baby, 

Ain't  got  any  hair. 


UNCLE  DAN'L'S  APPARITION  AND  PRAYER. 


121 


Send  me  off  wiz  Biddy 

Evry  single  day ; 
'  Be  a  good  boy,  Charlie, 
Run  away  and  play." 


Dot  all  my  nice  kisses, 
Dot  my  place  in  bed; 

Mean  to  take  my  drumstick 
And  beat  Lim  on  ze  head. 


UNCLE  BAWL'S  APPARITION  AND  PEA  YER. 


FROM      THE  GILDED  AGE     OF  CLEMENS  AND  WAENER. 


'HATEVER  the  lagging,  dragging  journey  may  have  been  to  the 
rest  of  the  emigrants,  it  was  a  wonder  and  a  delight  to  the 
children,  a  world  of  enchantment;  and  they  believed  it  to  be 
peopled  with  the  mysterious  dwarfs  and  giants  and  goblins  that 
figured  in  the  tales  the  negro  slaves  were  in  the  habit  of  telling  them 
nightly  by  the  shuddering  light  of  the  kitchen  fire. 

At  the  end  of  nearly  a  week  of  travel,  the  party  went  into  camp  near 
a  shabby  village  which  was  caving,  house,  by  house  into  the  hungry  Missis* 
sippi.  The  river  astonished  the  children  beyond  measure.  Its  mile- 
breadth  of  water  seemed  an  ocean  to  them,  in  the  shadowy  twilight,  and 
the  vague  riband  of  trees  on  the  further  shore,  the  verge  of  a  continent 
which  surely  none  but  they  had  ever  seen  before. 

"  Uncle  Dan'l  "  (colored,)  aged  40 ;  his  wife,  "  aunt  Jinny,"  aged  30, 
"Young  Miss"  Emily  Hawkins,  "Young  Mars"  Washington  Hawkins  and 
"  Young  Mars  "  Clay,  the  new  member  of  the  family,  ranged  themselves 
on  a  log,  after  supper,  and  contemplated  the  marvelous  river  and  discussed 


122  UNCLE  DAN'L'S  APPARITION  AND  PRAYER. 

it.  The  moon  rose  and  sailed  aloft  through  a  maze  of  shredded  cloud- 
wreaths  ;  the  sombre  river  just  perceptibly  brightened  under  the  veiled 
light ;  a  deep  silence  pervaded  the  air  and  was  emphasized,  at  intervals, 
rather  than  broken,  by  the  hooting  of  an  owl,  the  baying  of  a  dog,  or  the 
muffled  crash  of  a  caving  bank  in  the  distance. 

The  little  company  assembled  on  the  log  were  all  children,  (at  least  in 
simpHcity  and  broad  and  comprehensive  ignorance,)  and  the  remarks  they 
made  about  the  river  were  in  keeping  with  their  character ;  and  so  awed 
were  they  by  the  grandeur  and  the  solemnity  of  the  scene  before  them,  and 
by  their  belief  that  the  air  was  filled  with  invisible  spirits  and  that  the 
faint  zephyrs  were  caused  by  their  passing  wings,  that  all  their  talk  took 
to  itself  a  tinge  of  the  supernatural,  and  their  voices  were  subdued  to  a  low 
and  reverent  tone.     Suddenly  Uncle  Dan'l  exclaimed : 

"  Chil'en,  dah's  sumfin  a  comin' !  " 

All  crowded  close  together  and  every  heart  beat  faster.  Uncle  Dan'l 
pointed  down  the  river  with  his  bony  finger. 

A  deep  coughing  sound  troubled  the  stillness,  way  toward  a  wooded 
cape  that  jutted  into  the  stream  a  mile  distant.  All  in  an  instant  a  fierce 
eye  of  fire  shot  out  from  behind  the  cape  and  sent  a  long  brilliant  pathway 
quivering  athwart  the  dusky  water.  The  coughing  grew  louder  and  louder, 
the  glaring  eye  grew  larger  and  still  larger,  glared  wilder  and  still  wilder. 
A  huge  shape  developed  itself  out  of  the  gloom,  and  from  its  tall  duplicate 
horns  dense  volumes  of  smoke,  starred  and  spangled  with  sparks,  poured 
out  and  went  tumbling  away  into  the  farther  darkness.  Nearer  and 
nearer  the  thing  came,  till  its  long  sides  began  to  glow  with  spots  of  light 
which  mirrored  themselves  in  the  river  and  attended  the  monster  like  a 
torchlight  procession. 

"  What  is  it !     Oh,  what  is  it.  Uncle  Dan'l !  " 

With  deep  solemnity  the  answer  came : 

"  It's  de  Almighty  !     Git  down  on  yo'  knees  !  " 

It  was  not  necessary  to  say  it  twice.  They  were  all  kni'cling,  in  a 
moment.  And  then  whil*;  the  mysterious  coughing  rose  stronger  and 
stronger  and  the  throatf-ning  glare  reached  farther  and  wider,  the  negro's 
Voice  lifted  up  its  siif)])lication8 : 

"  0  Lorrl,  we's  ben  mighty  wicked,  an'  we  knows  dat  we  'zervc  to  go 
to  do  bad  place,  but  good  Lord,  dcah  Lord,  wo  aint  ready  yit,  we  aint 
ready — let  these  po'  chil'en  hab  one  mo'  chance,  jes'  one  mo'  chance.  Take 
de  olc  niggah  if  you's  got  to  hab  somebody. — Good  Lord,  good  dcah  Lord, 
we  don't  know  whah  you's  a  gwine  to,  we  don't  know  who  you's  got  yo' 
eye  on,  but  we  knows  by  de  way  you's  a  comin',  we  knows  by  the  way 


UNCLE  DAN'L'S  APPARITION  AND  PRAYER.  123 

you's  a  tiltin'  along  in  yo'  charyot  o'  fiah  dat  some  po'  sinner's  a  gwine  to 
ketch  it.  But  good  Lord,  dese  chil'en  don't  b'long  heah,  day's  f  m  Obeds 
town  whah  dey  don't  know  nuffin,  an'  yoa  knows,  yo'  own  sef,  dat  dey  aint 
'sponsible.  An'  deali  Lord,  good  Lord,  it  aint  like  yo'  mercy,  it  aint  like 
yo'  pity,  it  aint  like  yo'  long-sufferin'  lovin'-kindness  for  to  take  dis  kind  c^ 
'vantage  o'  sich  little  chil'en  as  dese  is  when  dey's  so  many  ornery  grown 
folks  chuck  full  o'  cussedness  dat  wants  roastin'  down  dah.  0  Lord,  spah 
de  little  chil'en,  don't  tar  de  little  chil'en  away  f 'm  dey  frens,  jes'  let  'em 
off  dis  once,  and  take  it  out'n  de  ole  niggah.  Heah  I  is,  Lord,  heah  I 
IS  !     De  ole  niggah's  ready,  Lord,  de  ole " 

The  flaming  and  churning  steamer  was  right  abreast  the  party,  and 
not  twenty  steps  away.  The  awful  thunder  of  a  mud-valve  suddenly  burst 
forth,  drowning  the  prayer,  and  as  suddenly  Uncle  Dan'l  snatched  a  child 
under  each  arm  and  scoured  into  the  woods  with  the  rest  of  the  pack  at  his 
heels.  And  then,  ashamed  of  himself,  he  halted  in  the  deep  darkness  and 
shouted,  (but  rather  feebly  :) 

"  Heah  I  is,  Lord,  heah  I  is !  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  throbbing  suspense,  and  then,  to  the  surprise 
and  comfort  of  the  party,  it  was  plain  that  the  august  presence  had  gone 
by,  for  its  dreadful  noises  were  receding.  Uncle  Dan'l  headed  a  cautious 
reconnoissance  in  the  direction  of  the  log.  Sure  enough  "  the  Lord  "  waa 
just  turning  a  point  a  short  distance  up  the  river,  and  while  they  looked, 
the  lights  winked  out  and  the  coughing  diminished  by  degrees  and  pre- 
sently ceased  altogether. 

"  H'wsh  !  Well  now  dey's  some  folks  says  dey  aint  no  'ficiency  in 
prah.  Dis  chile  would  like  to  know  whah  we'd  a  ben  7iow  if  it  warn't  fo' 
dat  prah  ?     Dat's  it.     Dat's  it !  " 

"  Uncle  Dan'l,  do  you  reckon  it  was  the  prayer  that  saved  us  ?  "  said 
Clay. 

"  Does  I  reckon  ?  Don't  I  know  it !  "Whah  was  yo'  eyes  ?  Warn't 
de  Lo]-d  jes'  a  comin'  chow  !  chow  !  chow  !  an'  a  goin'  on  turrible — an'  do 
de  Lord  carry  on  dat  way  'dout  dey's  sumfin  don't  suit  him  ?  An'  warn't 
he  a  lookin'  right  at  dis  gang  heah,  an'  warn't  he  jes'  a  reachin'  for  'err  ? 
An'  d'you  spec'  he  gwine  to  let  'em  off  'dout  somebody  ast  him  to  do  it  ? 
No  indeedy !  " 

"  Do  you  reckon  he  saw  us,  Uncle  Dan'l  ?  " 

"  De  law  sakes,  chile,  didn't  I  see  him  a  lookin'  at  us  ?  " 

"  Did  you  feel  scared,  Uncle  Dan'l  ?  " 

"No  sah!     When  a  man  is  'gaged  in  prah,  he  aint  'fraid  o'  ruffin- 
dey  can't  nuffin  tetch  him." 


124  SOCRATES  SNOOKS. 


"Well  what  did  you  run  for  ?  " 

"  Well,  I — I — Mars  Clay,  when  a  man  is  under  de  influence  ob  de 
sperit,  lie  do-no  what  he's  'bout — no  sah ;  dat  man  do-no  what  he's  'bout. 
You  might  take  an'  tah  de  head  off'n  dat  man  an'  he  wouldn't  scasely  fine 
it  out.  Dah's  de  Hebrew  chil'en  dat  went  frough  de  fiah ;  dey  was  burnt 
considable — ob  coase  dey  was;  but  dei/  didn't  know  nuffin  'bout  it — heal 
right  up  agin;  if  dey'd  ben  gals  dey'd  missed  dey  long  haah,  (hair,)  maybe, 
but  dey  wouldn't  felt  de  burn." 

"  /don't  know  but  what  they  were  girls.     I  think  they  were." 

"  Now  Mars  Clay,  you  knows  better'n  dat.  Sometimes  a  body  can't 
tell  whedder  you's  a  sayin'  what  you  means  or  whedder  you's  a  saying  what 
you  don't  mean,  'case  you  says  'em  bofe  de  same  way." 

"  But  how  should  /know  whether  they  were  boys  or  girls?  ' 

"  Goodness  sakes,  Mars  Clay,  don't  de  good  book  say  ?  'Sides,  don't 
it  call  'em  de  /Te-brew  chil'en  ?  If  dey  was  gals  would'n  dey  be  de  she- 
brew  chil'en?  Some  people  dat  kin  read  don't  'pear  to  take  no  notice  when 
dey  do  read." 

"  Well,  Uncle  Dan'l,  I  think  that My !  here  comes  another 

one  up  the  river  !     There  can't  be  two  !  " 

"  We  gone  dis  time — we  done  gone  dis  time  sho' !  Dey  aint  two,  Mars 
Qlay — dat's  de  same  one.  De  Lord  kin  'pear  eberywhah  in  a  second. 
Goodness,  how  de  fiah  an'  de  smoke  do  belch  up !  Dat  mean  business, 
honey.  He  comin'  now  like  he  fo'got  sumfin.  Come  'long,  chil'en,  time 
you's  gwine  to  roos'.  Go  'long  wid  you — ole  Uncle  Dan'l  gwine  out  in  de 
woods  to  rastle  in  prah — de  ole  niggah  gwine  to  do  what  he  kin  to  sabe 

you  agin." 

He  did  go  to  the  woods  and  pray ;  but  he  went  so  far  that  he  doubted, 
himself,  if  the  Lord  heard  him  when  He  went  by. 


SOCRATES  SNOOKS 


TER   Socrates   Snooka,  a  lord  of]  When  on?  morning  to  Xantippe,  Socrates  said 

"  I  think,  for  a  man  of  my  Btanding  in  life, 
This  house  is  too  small,  as  I  now  have  a  wife 
So,  as  early  as  possible,  carpenter  Carey 
Shall  Vie  sent  for  to  widen  my  house  and  my 
dairy." 


creation, 
li"  .second  time  entered  the  married 
relation : 
Xantij)pe  CJaloric  accepted  his  hand, 
And  they  thought  him  the  happiest  man 

in  the  land. 
Bu*.  scarce  had  the  honeymoon  passed 
o'er  his  hea^l, 


"  Now,  Socrates,  dearest,"  Xantippe  replied, 
"  I  hate  to  hear  everything  vulgarly  my'd; 


TOO  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN. 


125 


Now,  whenever  you  speak  of  your  chattels 
again, 

Say,  our  cow-house,  our  barn-yard,  our  pig- 
pen." 

"  By  your  leave,   Mrs.  Snooks,  I   will   say 
what  I  please 

Of  my  houses,  my  lands,  my   gardens,   my 

trees." 
■Say  our,"  Xantippe  exclaimed  in  a  rage. 

"I  won't,  Mrs.  Snooks,  though  you  ask  it  an 
age !" 

Oh,  woman!    though  only  a  part  of  man's 

rib, 
If  the  story  in  Genesis  don't  tell  a  fib. 
Should  your  naughty  companion  e'er  quarrel 

with  you. 
You  are  certain  to  prove  the  best  man  of  the 

two. 
In  the  following  case  this  was  certainly  true ; 
For  the  lovely  Xantippe  just  pulled  off  her 

shoe, 
And  laying  about  her,  all  sides  at  random. 
The  adage  was  verified — "  Nil  desperandum." 

Mister  Socrates  Snooks,  after  trying  in  vain. 
To  ward  off  the  blows  which  descended  like 


Concluding  that  valor's  best  part  wag  discre- 
tion— 

Crept  under  the  bed  like  a  terrified  Hessian ; 

But  the  dauntless  Xantippe,  not  one  whit 
afraid. 

Converted  the  siege  into  a  blockade. 

At  last,  after  reasoning  the  thing  in  his  pate, 

He  concluded  'twas  useless  to  strive  against 
fate: 

And  so,  like  a  tortoise  protruding  his  head, 

Said,  "  My  dear,  may  we  come  out  from  un- 
der our  bed  ?" 

"  Hah  !  hah  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  Mr.  Socrates 
Snooks, 

I  perceive  you  agree  to  my  terms  by  your 
looks : 

Now,  Socrates — hear  me — from  this  happy 
hour. 

If  you'll  only  obey  me,  I'll  never  look  sour." 

'Tis  said   the  next  Sabbath,   ere  going  to 

church. 
He  chanced  for  a  clean  pair  of  trowsers  to 

search : 
Having  found   them,  he  a.sked,  with  a  few 

nervous  twitches, 
"  My  dear,  may  we  put  on  our  new  Sunday 

breeches  ?" 


>imM 


yj>< 


TOO  LATE  FOB  THE  TRAIN. 


[TEN  they  reached  the  depot,  Mr.  Mann  and  his  wife  gazed  in 
unspeakable  disappointment  at  the  receding  train,  which  was 
just  pulling  away  from  the  bridge  switch  at  the  rate  of  a  mile  a 
minute.     Their  first  impulse  was  to  run  after  it,  but  as  the  train 

iwas  out  of  sight  and  whistling  for  Sagetown  before  they  could 
act  upon  the  impulse,  they  remained  in  the  carriage  and  discon 
aolately  turned  their  horses'  heads  homeward. 

Mr.  Mann  broke  the  silence,  very  grimly :  "  It  all  comes  of  having  to 
wait  for  a  woman  to  get  ready." 

"  I  was  ready  before  you  were,"  replied  his  wife. 
''Great  heavens,"  cried  Mr.  Mann,  with   great   impatience,  nearly 
jerking  the  horse's  jaws  out  of  place,  "just  listen  to  that !     And  I  sat  m 
9 


126 


TOO  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN. 


the  buggy  ten  minutes  yelling  at  you  to  come  along  until  tlie  whole  neigh- 
borhood heard  me." 

"  Yes,"  acquiesced  Mrs.  Mann,  with  the  provoking  placidity  which  no 
one  can  assume  but  a  woman,  "  and  every  time  I  started  down  stairs,  you 
sent  me  back  for  something  you  had  forgotten." 

Mr.  Mann  groaned.  "  This  is  too  much  to  bear,"  he  said,  "  when 
everybody  knows  that  if  I  were  going  to  Europe  I  would  just  rush  into 
the  house,  put  on  a  clean  shirt,  grab  up  my  grip-sack,  and  fly,  while  you 
would  want  at  least  six  months  for  preliminary  preparations,  and  then 
dawdle  around  the  whole  day  of  starting  until  every  train  had  left  town." 
"Well,  the  upshot  of  the  matter  was  that  the  Manns  put  off  their  visit 
to  Aurora  until  the  next  week,  and  it  was  agreed  that  each  one  should  get 
himself  or  herself  ready  and  go  down  to  the  train  and  go,  and  the  one  who 
failed  to  get  ready  should  be  left.  The  day  of  the  match  came  around  in 
due  time.  The  train  was  going  at  10.30,  and  Mr.  Mann,  after  attending 
to  his  business,  went  home  at  9.45. 

"Now,  then,"  he  shouted,  "only  three-quarters  of  an  hour's  time. 
Fly  around;  a  fair  field  and  no  favors,  you  know." 

And  away  they  flew.  Mr.  Mann  bulged 
into  this  room  and  flew  through  that  one,  and 
dived  into  one  closet  after  another  with  incon- 
ceivable rapidity,  chuckling  under  his  breath 
all  the  time  to  think  how  cheap  Mrs.  Mann 
would  feel  when  he  started  off'  alone.  He 
stopped  on  his  way  up  stairs  to  pull  off"  his 
heavy  boots  to  save  time.  For  the  same  rea- 
son he  pulled  off"  his  coat  as  ho  ran  through 
the  dining-room,  and  hung  it  on  a  corner  of 
the  silver-closet.  Then  he  jerked  off  his  vest 
as  he  rushed  through  the  hall  and  tossed  it  on 
the  hat-rack  hook,  and  by  the  time  he  had 
reached  his  own  room  he  was  ready  to  pkinge 
into  his  ck'an  clothes.  He  pulled  out  a  bureau- 
drawer  and  began  to  paw  at  the  things  like  a 
Scotch  terrier  after  a  rat. 

"Eloanor,"   he   shrieked,    "where    are  ray 
shirts?" 
"  In  your  bureau  drawer,"  calmly  replied  Mrs.  Mann,  who  was  standing 
before  a  glaas  calmly  and  doliberatcly  coaxing  a  refractory  crimp  into 
place. 


TOO  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN. 


127 


"  Well,  but  they  ain't,"  shouted  Mr.  Mann,  a  little  annoyed.  "  I've 
emptied  everything  out  of  the  drawer,  and  there  isn't  a  thing  in  it  I  ever 
saw  before." 

Mrs.  Mann  stepped  back  a  few  paces,  held  her  head  on  one  side,  and 
after  satisfying  herself  that  the  crimp  would  do,  replied :  "  These  things 
scattered  around  on  the  floor  are  all  mine.  Probably  you  haven't  been 
looking  into  your  own  drawer." 

'^  I  don't  see,"  testily  observed  Mr.  Mann,  "  why  you  couldn't  have 
put  my  things  out  for  me  when  you  had  nothing  else  to  do  all  the 
morning." 

"  Because,"  said  Mlrs.  Mann,  setting  herself  into  an  additional  article 
of  raiment  with  awful  deliberation,  "  nobody  put  mine  out  for  me.  A  fair 
field  and  no  favors,  my  dear." 

Mr.  Mann  plunged  into  his  shirt  like  a  bull  at  a  red  flag. 

"  Foul !  "  he  shouted  in  malici- 
ous triumph.  "  No  buttons  on  the 
xieck ! " 

"  Because,"  said  Mrs.  Mann,  sweet- 
ly, after  a  deliberate  stare  at  the 
fidgeting,  impatient  man,  during  which 
she  buttoned  her  dress  and  put  eleven 
pins  where  they  would  do  the  most 
good,  "  because  you  have  got  the  shirt 
on  wrong  side  out." 

When  Mr.  Mann  slid  out  of  the 
shirt  he  began  to  sweat.  He  dropped 
the  shirt  three  times  before  he  got  it 
on,  and  while  it  was  over  his  head  he 
heard  the  clock  strike  t«n.     When  his 

head  came  through  he  saw  Mrs.  Mann  coaxing  the  ends  and  bows  of  her 
necktie. 

"  Where  are  my  shirt-studs  ?  "  he  cried. 

Mrs.  Mann  went  out  into  another  room  and  presently  came  back  with 
gloves  and  hat,  and  saw  Mr.  Mann  emptying  all  the  boxes  he  could  find 
in  and  around  the  bureau.  Then  she  said,  "  In  the  shirt  you  just 
pulled  off." 

Mrs.  Mann  put  on  her  gloves  while  Mr.  Mann  hunted  up  and  down 
the  room  for  his  cuff-buttons. 

"  Eleanor,"  he  snarled  at  last,  "  I  believe  you  must  know  wher« 
those  cuff-buttons  are." 


12S  TOO  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN. 

"I  haven't  seen  them,"  said  the  lady  settling  her  hat;  *' didn't  you 
lay  them  down  on  the  window-sill  in  the  sitting-room  last  night  ?  " 

Mr.  Mann  remembered,  and  he  went  down  stairs  on  the  run.  He 
stepped  on  one  of  his  boots  and  was  immediately  landed  in  the  hall  at  the 
ibot  of  the  stairs  with  neatness  and  dispatch,  attended  in  the  transmis- 
»ion  with  more  bumps  than  he  could  count  with  Webb's  Adder,  and  landed 
with  a  bang  Uke  the  Hell  Gate  explosion. 

"  Are  you  nearly  ready,  Algernon  ? "  sweetly  asked  the  wife  of  his 
bosom,  leaning  over  the  banisters. 

The  unhappy  man  groaned.  "  Can't  you  throw  me  down  the  other 
Soot?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Mann  piteously  kicked  it  down  to  him. 

"  My  valise  ?  "  he  inquired,  as  he  tugged  at  the  boot. 

"  Up  in  your  dressing-room,"  she  answered. 

"Packed?" 

"  I  do  not  know ;  unless  you  packed  it  yourself,  probably  not,"  she 
rephed,  with  her  hand  on  the  door-knob ;  "  I  had  barely  time  to  pack  my 
own." 

She  was  passing  out  of  the  gate  when  the  door  opened,  and  he 
shouted,  "  Where  in  the  name  of  goodness  did  you  put  my  vest  ?  It  has 
all  my  money  in  it." 

"  You  threw  it  on  the  hat-rack,"  she  called.     ''Good-bye,  dear." 

Before  i)he  got  to  the  corner  of  the  street  she  was  hailed  again  : 

"  Eleanor !  Eleanor  !  Eleanor  Mann  !     Did  you  wear  off  my  coat  ?  " 

She  pansed  and  turned,  after  signaling  the  street-car  to  stop,  and 
cried,  "  You  threw  it  in  the  silver-closet." 

The  street-car  engulfed  her  graceful  form  and  she  was  seen  no  more. 
But  the  neighbors  say  that  they  heard  Mr.  Mann  charging  up  and  down 
the  house,  rushing  out  of  the  front-door  every  now  and  then,  shrieking 
after  the  unconscious  Mrs.  Mann,  to  know  where  his  hat  was,  and  where 
she  put  the  valise  key,  and  if  she  had  his  clean  socks  and  undershirts,  and 
that  there  wasn't  a  linen  collar  in  the  house.  And  when  he  went  away 
at  last,  ho  loft  the  kitchen-door,  the  side-door  and  the  front-door,  all  the 
down-stairs  windows  and  the  front-gate  wide  open. 

The  loungers  around  the  depot  were  somewhat  amused,  just  as  the 
train  was  pulling  out  of  sight  down  in  the  yards,  to  S(^o  a  flushod,  cnter- 
pri.sing  man,  with  his  hat  on  Hid(!wayH,  his  vest  unbuttoned  and  necktie 
flying,  and  his  grij)-sack  flapping  open  and  shut  like  a  dcnKnited  shutter 
on  a  March  night,  and  a  door-key  in  his  hand,  dash  wildly  across  the  plat- 
*brm  and  halt  in  the  middle  of  the  track,  glaring  in  dejected,  impotent 


THE  UNBOLTED  DOOR. 


12(' 


wrathful  mortification  at  the  departing  train,  and  snaking  his  fiat  at  a 
pretty  woman  who  was  throwing  kisses  at  'him  from  the  rear  platform  o'. 
the  last  car. 


TBF   UNBOLTED  DOOE. 


EDWARD   GARRETT. 


CARE-WORN  widow  sat  alone 

Beside  her  fading  hearth  ; 
Her  silent  cottage  never  hears 
The  ringing  laugh  of  mirth. 
Six  children  once  had  sported  there,  but  now 

the  church-yard  snow 
Fell  softly  on  five  little  graves  that  were  not 
long  ago. 

She  mourned  them  all  with  patient  love; 

But  since,  her  eyes  had  shed 
Far  bitterer  tears  than  those  which  dewed 
The  facer-  of  the  dead, — 
The  child  which  had  been  spared  to  her,  the 

darling  of  her  pride, 
The  woful  mother  lived  to  wish  that  she  had 
also  died. 

Those  little  ones  beneath  the  snow 

She  well  knew  where  they  are ; 
'  Close  gathered  to  the  throne  of  God," 
And  that  was  better  far. 
But  when  she  saw  where  Katy  was,  she  saw 

the  city's  glare. 
The  painted  mask  of  bitter  joy  that  need 
gave  sin  to  wear. 


Without,  the  snow  lay  thick  and  whit« ; 

No  step  had  fallen  there  ; 
Within,  she  sat  beside  her  fire. 

Each  thought  a  silent  prayer ; 
When  suddenly  behind  her  seat  unwont«4 

noise  she  heard, 
As  though  a  hesitating  hand  the  rustic  latch 
had  stirred. 

She  turned,  and  there  the  wanderer  stood 

With  snow-flakes  on  her  hair  ; 
A  faded  woman,  wild  and  worn, 
The  ghost  of  something  fair. 
And   then   upon    the    mother's    breast    th« 

whitened  head  was  laid, 
"  Can  God  and  you  forgive  me  all  ?  for  I  have 
sinned,"  she  said. 

The  widow  dropped  upon  her  knees 

Before  the  fading  fire, 
And  thanked  the  Lord  whoss  love  at  last 

Had  granted  her  desire  ; 
The  daughter  kneeled  beside  her.  tco,  teart 
streaming  from  her  eyes, 
And  prayed,  "  God  help  me  to  be  good  to 
mother  ere  she  dies." 


130 


THE  VAGABONDS. 


They  did  not  talk  about  the  sin, 

"  My  child;"  the  widow  said,  and  smiled 

The  shame,  the  bitter  woe  ; 

A  smile  of  love  and  pain, 

They  spoke  about  those  little  graves 

"  I  kept  it  so  lest  you  should  come 

And  things  of  long  ago. 

And  turn  away  again ! 

And  then  the  daughter  raised  her  eyes 

and 

I've  waited  for  you  all  the  while — a  mother's 

asked  in  tender  tone, 

love  is  true ; 

"Why  did   you   keep   your   door  unbarred 

Yet  this  is  but  a  shadowy  type  of  His  who 

-when  you  were  all  alone?" 

died  for  jou!" 

S-j*^ 


THE  VAGABONDS. 


J.    T.    TROWBRIDGE. 


are  two  travelers,  Roger  and  I. 
I  '•   i^er'fi  my  dog  ; — como  hero,  you 

Hcamp! 
Jump  for    the    gentleman, — mind 

your  eye! 
Over  tho  tahln, — look   out  for  the 

lamji ! — 
Tho  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old : 


Five  years  we've  tramped  through  wind 

and  weather, 
And  slept  out-doors  wlif^n  nights  were  cold, 
And   ate    an'l    drank  —  and    starved    to 

gethor. 

We've  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  ti<!l  you  I 
A  bod  on  tho  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 


THE  YANKEE  AND  THE  DUTCHMAN'S  DOG. 


131 


A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs,  (poor  fellow ! 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there's  been  frozen,) 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle, 

(This  out-door  business  is  bad  for  strings,) 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats,  hot  from  the 
griddle, 

And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings  ! 


Why  not  reform  ?     That's  easily  said  ; 

But  I've  gone  through  such  wretched  treat- 
ment. 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread. 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant, 
That  my  poor  stomach  's  past  reform  ; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  think- 
ing. 
I'd  sell  out  heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  ? 

At  your  age,  sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love, — but  I  took  to  drink  ; — 

The  same  old  story  ;  you  know  how  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features, — 

You  needn't  laugh,  sir  ;  they  were  not  then 
Buch  a  burning  libel  on  God's  creatures  : 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men  ! 

If  you  had  seen  her,  so  fair  and  young, 

Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast ! 
If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 

When  the  wine  went  round,  you  wouldn't 
have  guessed 
That  ever  I,  sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  dog. 
Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 

To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog ! 


She's  married  since, — a  parson's  wife : 

'Twas  better  for  her  that  we  should  part,^ 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart. 
I   have  seen  her?     Once:  I  was  weak  and 
spent 

On  the  dusty  road,  a  carriage  stopped ; 
But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she  went, 

Who    kissed    the    coin    that    her    fingers 
dropped ! 

You've  set  me  talking,  sir ;  I'm  sorry ; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change? 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing  ?  you  find  it  strange  ? 
I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me  ! 

'Twas  well  she  died  before Do  you  know 

If  the  happy  spirits  in  heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below  ? 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 

This  pain  ;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 
I  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 

Aching  thing,  in  place  of  a  heart  ? 
He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep,  if  he 
could. 

No  doubt,  remembering  things  that  wer«, — 
A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food. 

And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I'm  better  now  ;  that  glass  was  warming, — 

You  rascal !  limber  your  lazy  feet ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  streei 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think  ? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are 
free, 
And   the   sleepers  need  neither  victuals  no» 
drink  ; — - 

The  sooner  the  better  for  Roger  and  me ! 


THE  YANKEE  AND  THE  DUTCHMAN'S  DOG 


^IRAM  was  a  quiet,  peaceable  sort  of  a  Yankee,  who  lived  on  ilt.3 
same  farm  on  which  his  fathers  had  lived  before  him,  and  was 
\  X  generally  considered  a  pretty  cute  sort  of  a  fellow, — always  ready 
J    I       with  a  trick,  whenever  it  was  of  the  least  utility ;  yet,  when  he  did 


132  THE  YANKEE  AND  THE  DUTCHMAN'S  DOG. 


play  any  of  his  tricks,  'twas  done  in  such  an  innocent  manner,  that  his 
victim  could  do  no  better  than  take  it  all  in  good  part. 

Now,  it  happened  that  one  of  Hiram's  neighbors  sold  a  farm  to  ?. 
tolerably  green  specimen  of  a  Dutchman, — one  of  the  real  unintelligent. 
Btupid  sort. 

Von  Vlom  Schlopsch  had  a  dog,  as  Dutchmen  often  have,  who  was 
less  unintelligent  than  his  master,  and  who  had,  since  leaving  his  "  fader- 
land,"  become  sufficiently  civilized  not  only  to  appropriate  the  soil  as 
common  stock,  but  had  progressed  so  far  in  the  good  work  as  to  obtain  his 
dinners  from  the  neighbors'  sheepfold  on  the  same  principle. 

When  Hiram  discovered  this  propensity  in  the  canine  department  of 
the  Dutchman's  family,  he  walked  over  to  his  new  neighbor's  to  enter  com- 
plaint, which  mission  he  accomplished  in  the  most  natural  method  in  the 
world. 

"  "Wall,  Von,  your  dog  Blitzen's  been  kilhng  my  sheep." 

"  Ya !  dat  ish  bace— bad.  He  ish  von  goot  tog  :  ya  !  dat  ish 
bad!" 

"  Sartin,  it's  bad  ;  and  you'll  have  to  stop  'im." 

"  Ya !  dat  ish  alias  goot ;  but  ich  weis  nicht." 

"  What's  that  you  say?  he  was  nicked  ?  Wall,  now  look  here,  old 
fellow  !  nickin's  no  use.  Crop  'im ;  cut  his  tail  off  close,  chock  up  to  his 
trunk ;  that'll  cure  'im." 

"  Vat  ish  dat?  "  exclaimed  the  Dutchman,  while  a  faint  ray  of  intelli- 
gence crept  over  his  features.  "  Ya !  dat  ish  goot.  Dat  cure  von  sheep 
steal,  eh  ?  " 

"  Sartin  it  will :  he'll  never  touch  sheep  meat  again  in  this  world," 
said  Hiram  gravely. 

"  Den  come  mit  me.  He  von  mity  goot  tog  ;  all  the  way  from  Yar- 
many :  I  not  take  von  five  dollar — but  come  mit  me,  and  hold  his  tail,  eh? 
Ich  chop  him  off." 

"  Sartin,"  said  Hiram:  "  I'll  hold  his  tail  if  you  want  mo  tew;  imt 
you  must  cut  it  up  close." 

"Ya!  dat  ish  right.  Ich  make  'im  von  goot  tog.  There,  Blitzcn, 
Blitzcn  I  come  right  hero,  you  von  sheep  steal  rashcull :  I  chop  your  tail 
in  von  two  pieces." 

The  dog  obeyed  the  suiinnons ;  and  the  master  tied  his  f(;et  fore  and 
aft,  for  fear  of  acci<lont,  and  placing  the  tail  in  tlio  Yankee's  hand,  re- 
quested him  to  lay  it  across  a  large  block  of  wood. 

"  Chock  up,"  .said    Hiram,   as  he   dn-w  the  butt  <>{  the   tail   close  over 
the  log. 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 


133 


"  Ya !  dat  isli  right.  Now,  you  von 
ticf  sheep,  I  learns  you  better  hick," 
said  Von  Vloni  Schlopsch,  as  he  raised 
the  axe. 

It  descended  ;  and  as  it  did  so, 
Hiram,  with  characteristic  presence  of 
mind,  gave  a  sudden  jerk,  and  brought 
BUtzen's  neck  over  the  loa: ;  and  the 
head  rolled  over  the  other  side. 

"  Wall,  I  swow  !  "  said  Hiram 
with  apparent  astonishment,  as  he 
dropped  the  headless  trunk  of  the  dog ; 
"that  was  a  leetle  too  close." 

"'  Mine  cootness  !  "  exclaimed  the 
Dutchman,  "you  shust  cut  'im  off  de 
wrong  end  /" 


CHOCK   UP !" 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 


W.   C.    BRYANT. 


R  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 
As  seamen  know  the  sea ; 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass. 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 
Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear ; 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  firo. 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain. 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again  ; 


And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind. 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil ; 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  .soldier's  cup. 
With  merr}'  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves. 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 
The  band  that  Marion  leads, — 

The  glitter  of  their  rifles,. 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 


134 


DEATH  OF  LITTLE  JO. 


Tifl  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlit  plain  ; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp — 

A  moment — and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 
Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs ; 


Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 

Forever  from  our  shore. 


DEATH  OF  LITTLE  JO. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


is  very  glad  to  see  his  old  friend ;  -and  says,  when  they  are  left 
alone,  that  he  takes  it  uncommon  kind  as  Mr.  Sangsby  should 
come  so  far  out  of  his  way  on  accounts  of  sich  as  him.  Mr. 
Sangbsy,  touched  by  the  spectacle  before  him,  immediately  lays 
upon  the  table  half-a-crown ;  that  magic  balsam  of  his  for  all 
kinds  of  wounds. 

"And  how  do  you  find  yourself,  my  poor  lad?"  inquired  the  sta' 
tioner,  with  his  cough  of  sympathy. 

"  I'm  in  luck,  Mr.  Sangsby,  I  am,"  returns  Jo,  "  and  don't  want  for 
nothink.  I'm  more  cumfbler  nor  you  can't  think,  Mr.  Sangsby.  I'm 
wery  sorry  that  I  done  it,  but  I  didn't  go  fur  to  do  it,  sir." 

The  stationer  softly  lays  down  another  half-crown,  and  asks  him  what 
it  is  that  he  is  sorry  for  having  done. 

"  Mr.  Sangsby,"  says  Jo,  "I  went  and  giv  a  illness  to  the  lady  as  wos 
and  yet  as  warn't  the  t'other  lady,  and  none  of  'em  never  says  nothink  to 
me  for  having  done  it,  on  accounts  of  their  being  so  good  and  my  having 
been  s'  unfortnet.  The  lady  come  horsolf  and  see  me  yes'day,  and  she  ses, 
*Ah  Jo!'  she  ses.  'We  thought  we'd  lost  you,  Jo!'  she  scs.  And  she 
eits  down  a  smilin  so  quiet,  and  don't  pass  a  word  nor  yit  a  look  upon  me 
for  having  done  it,  she  don't,  and  I  turns  agin  the  wall,  I  does,  Mr. 
Sangsby.  And  Mr.  Jarnders,  I  sec  him  a  forced  to  turn  away  his  own 
self.  And  Mr.  Woodcot,  ho  come  fur  to  give  me  somcthink  for  to  ease 
me,  wot  he's  alius  a  doin  on  day  and  night,  and  wen  he  comos  a  bendin 
over  me  and  a  H})f!akin  up  so  bold,  I  see  his  tears  a  fallin,  Mr.  Sangsby." 


A  YOUNG  CAVALIER. 

From  a  Celebrated   Painting  by 

Reni  Reinickf 


DEATH  OF  LITTLE  JO.  135 


The  softened  stationer  deposits  another  half-crown  on  the  table. 
Nothing  less  than  a  repetition  of  that  infallible  remedy  will  relieve  his 
feelings. 

"Wot  I  wos  thinkin  on,  Mr.  Sangsby,"  proceeds  Jo,  "  wos,  as  you 
wos  able  to  write  wery  large,  p'raps?" 

"Yes,  Jo,  please  God,"  returns  the  stationer. 

"  Uncommon,  precious  large,  p'raps  ?  "  says  Jo,  with  eagerness. 

"  Yes,  my  poor  boy." 

Jo  laughs  with  pleasure.  "  Wot  I  wos  thinkin  on  then,  Mr.  Sangsby, 
wos,  that  wen  I  wos  moved  on  as  fur  as  ever  I  could  go,  and  couldn't  be 
moved  no  furder,  whether  you  might  be  so  good,  p'raps,  as  to  write  out, 
wery  large,  so  that  any  one  could  see  it  anywheres,  as  that  I  was  wery 
truly  hearty  sorry  that  I  done  it,  and  that  I  never  went  fur  to  do  it ;  and 
that  though  I  didn't  know  nothink  at  all,  I  knowd  as  Mr.  Woodcot  once 
cried  over  it,  and  was  alius  grieved  over  it,  and  that  I  hoped  as  he'd  be 
able  to  forgive  me  in  his  mind.  If  the  writin  could  be  made  to  say  it 
wery  large,  he  might." 

"  I  shall  say  it,  Jo  ;  very  large." 

Jo  laughs  again.  "  Thankee,  Mr.  Sangsby.  It's  wery  kind  of  you, 
sir,  and  it  makes  me  more  cumfbler  nor  I  wos  afore." 

The  meek  little  stationer,  with  a  broken  and  unfinished  cough,  slips 
down  his  fourth  half-crown, — he  has  never  been  so  close  to  a  case  requiring 
so  many, — and  is  fain  to  depart.  And  Jo  and  he,  upon  this  httle  earth, 
shall  meet  no  more.     No  more. 

{Another  scene. — Enter  Mr.  Woodcourt) 

"  Well,  Jo,  what  is  the  matter  ?     Don't  be  frightened." 

"  I  thought,"  says  Jo,  who  has  started,  and  is  looking  round,  "  I 
thought  I  was  in  Tom-All-alone's  agin.  An't  there  nobody  here  but  you, 
Mr.  Woodcot?" 

"  Nobody." 

"And  I  an't  took  back  to  Tom-All-alone's,  am  I,  sir?" 

"  No." 

Jo  closes  his  eyes,  muttering,  "  I  am  wery  thankful." 

After  watching  him  closely  a  little  while,  Allan  puts  his  mouth  very 
near  his  ear,  and  says  to  him  in  a  low,  distinct  voice  :  "  Jo,  did  you  ever 
know  a  prayer  ?  " 

"Never  knowd  nothink,  sir." 

"  Not  so  much  as  one  short  prayer  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     Nothing  at  all.     Mr.  Chadbands  he  wos  a  prayin  wunst 


136  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  JO. 


at  Mr.  Sangsby's,  and  I  heerd  him,  but  he  sounded  as  if  he  wos  a  speakin 
to  hisself,  and  not  to  me.  He  prayed  a  lot,  but  /  couldn't  make  out 
nothink  on  it.  Different  times  there  wos  other  genlmen  come  down  Tom- 
all-x\lone's  a  prayin,  but  they  all  mostly  sed  as  the  t'other  wuns  prayed 
wrong,  and  all  mostly  sounded  to  be  talkin  to  theirselves,  or  a  passin 
blame  on  the  t'others,  and  not  a  talkin  to  us.  We  never  knowd  nothink. 
/never  knowd  what  it  wos  all  about." 

It  takes  him  a  long  time  to  say  this ;  and  few  but  an  experienced  and 
attentive  listener  could  hear,  or,  hearing,  understand  him.  After  a  short 
relapse  into  sleep  or  stupor,  he  makes,  of  a  sudden,  a  strong  effort  to  get 
out  of  bed. 

"  Stay,  Jo,  stay !     What  now  ?  " 

"  It's  time  for  me  to  go  to  that  there  berryin  ground,  sir,"  he  re- 
turns, with  a  wild  look. 

"Lie  down,  and  tell  me.     What  burying  ground,  Jo?" 

"  Where  they  laid  him  as  wos  wery  good  to  me ;  wery  good  to  me 
indeed,  he  wos.  It's  time  for  me  to  go  down  to  that  there  berryin  ground, 
sir,  and  ask  to  be  put  along  with  him.  I  wants  to  go  there  and  be  berried. 
He  used  fur  to  say  to  me,  '  I  am  as  poor  as  you  to-day,  Jo,'  he  ses.  I 
wants  to  tell  him  that  I  am  as  poor  as  him  now,  and  have  come  there  to 
be  laid  along  with  him." 

"  By-and-by,  Jo ;  by-and-by." 

"  Ah !  P'raps  they  wouldn't  do  it  if  I  was  to  go  myself.  But  will 
you  promise  to  have  me  took  there,  sir,  and  laid  along  with  him?" 

"  I  will,  indeed." 

"  Thankee,  sir  !  Thankee,  sir !  They'll  have  to  get  the  key  of  the 
gate  afore  they  can  take  mc  in,  for  it's  alius  locked.  And  there's  a  step 
there,  as  I  used  fur  to  clean  with  my  broom. — It's  turned  wery  dark,  sir. 
Is  there  any  light  a  comin  ?" 

"  It  is  coming  fast,  Jo." 

Fast.  The  cart  is  shaken  all  to  pieces,  and  the  rugged  road  is  very 
near  its  end. 

"  Jo,  my  poor  frillow  !  " 

"  I  hear,  you  sir,  in  the  dark,  but  I'm  a  gropin — a  gropin — let  mo 
catch  hold  of  your  liuixl." 

"  Jo,  can  you  say  what  I  say  ?  " 

"  I'll  say  anything  as  you  say,  sir,  lur  I  knows  it's  good." 

"Our  Father." 

"Our  Father! — yes,  that's  wery  good,  sir." 

"Which  art  in  Heaven." 


UNITED  IN  DEATH. 


13; 


"Art  iu  Heaven !" — Is  tlie  light  a  comin',  sir?" 

"It  is  close  at  hand.     Hallowed  be  thy  name." 

"Hallowed  be — thy — name  !" 

The  light  has  come  upon  the  benighted  way.     Dead. 

Dead,  your  Majesty.  Dead,  my  Lords  and  Gentlemen.  Dead,  Eight 
Reverends  and  Wrong  Reverends  of  every  order.  Dead,  men  and  women, 
born  with  heavenly  compassion  in  your  hearts.  And  dying  thus  around 
us  every  day. 


THE  FIRST  SNOW-FALL. 


JAMES   R.    LOWELL. 


HE  snow  had  began  in  the  gloaming, 
And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 
With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 

Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlock 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tfee 
Was  ridged  inch  deep  with  pearl. 

From  sheds  new-roofed  with  Carrara 
Came  Chanticleer's  muffled  crow, 

The  stiff  rails  were  softened  to  swan's  down, 
And  still  fluttered  down  the  snow. 

I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 
The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 

And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds. 
Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 

I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 
Where  a  little  headstone  stood ; 

How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently. 
As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood. 


Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,  "  Father,  who  makes  it  snow  f 
And  I  told  of  the  good  All-father 

Who  cares  for  us  here  below. 

Again  I  looked  at  the  snow-fall. 
And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 

That  arched  o'er  our  first  great  sorrow. 
When  that  mound  was  heaped  so  high. 

I  remembered  the  gradual  patience 

That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow, 

Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  of  our  deep-plunged  woe. 

And  again  to  the  child  I  whispered, 
"  The  snow  that  husheth  aU, 

Darling,  the  merciful  Father 
Alone  can  make  it  fall !" 

Then,  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  I  kissed  her . 

And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 
That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister. 

Folded  close  under  deepening  stow. 


UNITED  IN  DEATH. 


aSiepHERE  was  no  fierceness  in  the  eyes  of  those  men  now,  as  they  sat 
^i^  face  to  face  on  the  bank  of  the  stream ;  the  strife  and  the  angei 
J^  had  all  gone  now,  and  they  sat  still, — dying  men,  who  but  a  few 
i  hours  before  had  been  deadly  foes,  sat  still  and  looked   at  each 


138  UNITED  IN  DEATH. 


other.  At  last  one  of  them  spoke  :  "  We  haven't  either  of  us  a  chance  tti 
hold  on  much  longer,  I  judge." 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  with  a  little  mixture  of  sadness  and  reckless- 
ness, "  you  did  that  last  job  of  yours  well,  as  that  bears  witness,"  and  he 
pointed  to  a  wound  a  little  above  the  heart,  from  which  the  life  blood  was 
slowly  oozing. 

"  Not  better  than  you  did  yours,"  answered  the  other,  with  a  grim 
smile,  and  he  pointed  to  a  wound  a  little  higher  up,  larger  and  more 
ragged, — a  deadly  one.  And  then  the  two  men  gazed  upon  each  other 
again  in  the  dim  light ;  for  the  moon  had  come  over  the  hills  now,  and 
stood  among  the  stars,  like  a  pearl  of  great  price.  And  as  they  looked  a 
soft  feeling  stole  over  the  heart  of  each  toward  his  fallen  foe, — a  feeling  of 
pity  for  the  strong  manly  life  laid  low, — a  feeling  of  regret  for  the  in- 
exorable necessity  of  war  which  made  each  man  the  slayer  of  the  other ; 
and  at  last  one  spoke :  "  There  are  some  folks  in  the  world  that'll  feel 
worse  when  you  are  gone  out  of  it." 

A  spasm  of  pain  was  on  the  bronzed,  ghastly  features.  "Yes,"  said 
the  man,  in  husky  tones,  "  there's  one  woman  with  a  boy  and  girl,  away 
up  among  the  New  Hampshire  mountains,  that  it  will  well-nigh  kill  to  hear 
of  this ; "  and  the  man  groaned  out  in  bitter  anguish,  "  0  God  have  pity  on 
my  wife  and  children  ! " 

And  the  other  drew  closer  to  him:  "And  away  down  among  the 
cotton  fields  of  Georgia,  there's  a  woman  and  a  little  girl  whose  hearts  will 
break  when  they  hear  what  this  day  has  done ; "  and  then  the  cry  wrung 
itself  sharply  out  of  his  heart,  "  0  God,  have  pity  upon  them  !  " 

And  from  that  moment  the  Northerner  and  the  Southerner  ceased  to 
be  foes.  The  thought  of  those  distant  homes  on  which  the  anguish  was  to 
fall,  drew  them  closer  together  in  that  last  hour,  and  the  two  men  wept 
hke  little  children. 

And  at  last  the  Northerner  spoke,  talking  more  to  himself  than  to 
any  one  else,  and  he  did  not  know  that  the  other  was  listening  greedily  to 
every  word : — 

"She  used  to  come, — my  little  girl,  bless  her  heart! — every  night  to 
meet  me  when  I  came  home  from  the  fields ;  and  she  would  stand  under 
tlie  groat  plum-tree,  that's  just  beyond  the  back-door  at  home,  with  the 
sunlight  making  yellow- brown  in  her  golden  curls,  and  the  laugh  dancing 
in  her  eyes  when  she  heard  the  click  of  the  gate, — I  see  her  now, — and  I'd 
take  her  in  my  arms,  and  she'd  put  up  her  little  red  lips  for  a  kiss ;  but 
my  little  darling  will  never  watch  under  the  plum-tree  by  the  well,  for  her 
father,  again.     I  shall  never  hear  the  cry  of  joy  as  she  catches  a  glimpse 


GONE  WITH  A  HANDSOMER  MAN. 


139 


of  me  at  the  gate.  I  shall  never  see  her  little  feet  running  over  the  grass 
to  spring  into  my  arms  again  ! " 

"  And  then,"  said  the  Southerner,  "  there's  a  little  brown-eyed, 
brown-haired  girl,  that  used  to  watch  in  the  cool  afternoons  for  her  father, 
when  he  rode  in  from  his  visit  to  the  plantations.  I  can  see  her  sweet 
little  face  shining  out  now,  from  the  roses  that  covered  the  pillars,  and 
hear  her  shout  of  joy  as  I  bounded  from  my  horse,  and  chased  the  little 
flying  feet  up  and  down  the  verandah  again." 

And  the  Northerner  drew  near  to  the  Southerner,  and  spoke  now  in 
a  husky  whisper,  for  the  eyes  of  the  dying  men  were  glazing  fast :  "  We 
have  fought  here,  like  men,  together.  "We  are  going  before  God  in  a  Httle 
while.     Let  us  forgive  each  other." 

The  Southerner  tried  to  speak,  but  the  sound  died  away  in  a  mur- 
mur from  his  white  lips ;  but  he  took  the  hand  of  his  fallen  foe,  and  his 
stiffening  fingers  closed  over  it,  and  his  last  look  was  a  smile  of  forgive- 
ness and  peace.  When  the  next  morning's  sun  walked  up  the  gray  stairs 
of  the  dawn,  it  looked  down  and  saw  the  two  foes  lying  dead,  with  their 
hands  clasped  in  each  other,  by  the  stream  which  ran  close  to  the  battle- 
field. And  the  little  girl  with  golden  hair,  that  watched  under  the 
plum-tree  among  the  hills  of  New  Hampshire,  and  the  little  girl  with 
bright  brown  hair,  that  waited  by  the  roses  among  the  green  fields  of 
Georgia,  were  fatherless. 


GONE  WITH  A  HANDSOMER  MAN. 


WILL   CARLETON, 


John. 


lirl'VE  wi-'-ked  in  the  field  all  day,  a  plowin' 
^\^  tlie  "  stony  streak  ;" 

e^?  I've   ,s;olded   my  team  till  I'm  hoarse; 
i  IVe  tramped  till  my  legs  are  weak; 

j-  I've  choked  a  dozen  swears,  (so's  not  to 
tell  Jane  fibs,) 
WTien  the  plow-pint  struck  a  stone,  and  the 
handles  punched  my  ribs. 

I've  put  my  team  in  the  barn,  and  rubbed 

their  sweaty  coats ; 
I've  fed  'em  a  heap  of  hay  and  half  a  bushel 

of  oats ; 


And  to  see  the  way  they  eat  makes  me  like 

eatin'  feel 
And  Jane  won't  say  to-night  that  I  don't 

make  out  a  meal. 


Well  said !  the  door  is  locked  !  out  here  she'e 

left  the  key, 
Under  the  step,  in  a  place  known  only  to  hei 

and  me ; 
I  wonder  who's  dyin'  or  dead,  that  she's  bus 

tied  off  pell-mell ; 
But  here  on  the  table's  a  note,  and  probably 

this  will  tell. 


140 


GONE  WITH  A  HANDSOMER  MAN. 


Good  God .'  my  wife  is  ^ne !  my  wife  is  gone 

astray  ! 
The  letter  it  says,  "  Good-bye,  for  I'm  a  going 

away; 
I've  lived  with  you  six  months,  John,  and  so 

far  I've  been  true  ; 
But  I'm  going  away  to-day  with  a  handsomer 

man  than  you." 

A  han'somer  man  than  me  !     Whj',  that  ain't 

much  to  say ; 
There's  han'somer  men  than  me  go  past  here 

every  day. 
There's  handsomer  men  than  me — I  ain't  of 

the  han'some  kind ; 
But  a  loveri'er  man  than  I  was,  I  guess  she'll 

never  find. 

Curse  her !    curse  her !    I  say,  and  give  my 

curses  wings  ! 
May  the  words  of  love  I've  spoken  be  changed 

to  scorpion  stings ! 
'Jh,  she  filled  my  heart  with  joy,  she  emptied 

my  heart  of  doubt, 
And  now,  with  a  scratch  of  a  pen,  she  lets 

my  heart's  blood  out ! 

Curse  her !  curse  her !  say  I,  she'll  some  time 

rue  this  day ; 
She'll  some  time  learn  that  hate  is  a  game 

that  two  can  play  ; 
And  long  before  she  dies  she'll  grieve  she  ever 

was  born, 
And  I'll  plow  her  grave  with  hate,  and  seed 

it  down  to  scorn. 

Ab  sure  as  the  world  goes  on,  there'll  come  a 

time  when  she 
Will  read  the  devilish  heart  of  that  han'somer 

man  than  me ; 
And  there'll  be  a  time  when  he  will  find,  as 

others  do, 
rhat  she  who  is  false  to  one,  can  be  the  same 

with  two. 

An'l  whfin  her  face  grows  pale,  and  wh'n  her 

eyes  grow  dim, 
An!  when  he  ia  tired  of  lier  and  she  is  tirod 

of  him, 


She'll  do  what  she  ought  to  have  done,  anc 

coolly  count  the  cost ; 
And  then  she'll  see  things  clear,  and  know 

what  she  has  lost. 

And  thoughts  that  are  now  asleep  will  wake 

up  in  her  mind. 
And  she  will  mourn  and  cry  for  what  she  has 

left  behind ; 
And  maybe  she'll  sometimes  long  for  me — for 

me — but  no  ! 
I've  blotted  her  out  of  my  heart,  and  I  will 

not  have  it  so. 

And  yet  in  her  girlish  heart  there  was  some- 
thin'  or  other  she  had 

That  fastened  a  man  to  her,  and  wasn't  en- 
tirely bad : 

And  she  loved  me  a  little,  I  think,  although 
it  didn't  last; 

But  I  mustn't  think  of  these  things — I've 
buried  'em  in  the  past. 

I'll  take  my  hard  words  back,  nor  make  a  bad 

matter  worse ; 
She'll  have   trouble  enough ;    she  shall   not 

have  my  curse ; 
But  I'll  live  a  life  so  square — and  I  well  know 

that  I  can  — 
Th?.*^  she  always  will  sorry  be  that  she  went 

with  that  han'somer  man. 

Ah,  here  is  her  kitchen  dress!  it  makes  my 

poor  eyes  blur ; 
It  seems  when  I  look  at  tliat,  as  if  'twaa 

holdin'  her. 
And  here  are  her  week-day  shoes,  and  there 

is  her  week-day  hat, 
And  yonder's  her  weddin'  gown ;  I  wonder 

she  di<ln't  take  that. 

'Twas  only  this  mornin'  she  camo  and  called 
me  her  "  dearest  dear," 

And  said  I  was  makin'  for  her  a  regular  pa- 
radise hero; 

0  God  !  if  you  want  a  man  to  sense  the  paina 
of  hell. 

Before  you  pitch  him  in  just  keep  him  in  heac 
yen  a  spell  I 


DEDICATION   OF   GETTYSBURG   CEMETERY. 


141 


Good-bye!  I  wish  that  death  had  severed  us 

two  apart. 
You've  lost  a  worshiper  here,  you've  crushed 

a  lovin'  heart. 
ril  worship  no  woman  again  ;  but  I  guess  I'll 

learn  to  pray, 
A.nd  kneel  as  yoit,  used  to  kneel,  before  you 

run  away. 

And  if  I  thought  I  could  bring  my  words  on 

Heaven  to  bear, 
And  if  I  thought  I  had  some  little  influence 

there,  ■ 
1  would  pray  that  I  might  be,  if  it  only  could 

be  so. 
As  bappy  and  gay  as  I  was  a  half  hour  ago. 

Jane  {entering). 

Why,  John,  what  a  litter  here  !  you've  thrown 
things  all  aroundj 

Come,  what's  the  matter  now  ?  and  what  have 
you  lost  or  found  ? 

And  here's  my  father  here,  a  waiting  for  sup- 
per, too ; 

I've  been  a  riding  with  him — he's  that  "hand- 
somer man  than  you." 

Ha!  ha!   Pa,  take  a  seat,  while  I  put  the 

kettle  on. 
And  get  things   ready  for  tea,  and  kiss  my 

dear  old  John. 
Why,  John,  you  look  so  strange !  come,  what 

has  crossed  your  track  ? 
I  was  only  a  joking,  you  know;  I'm  willing 

to  take  it  back. 


JoHX   (n.i'ide). 
Well,  now,  if  this  aint  a  joke,  with  rather  a 

bitter  cream  1 
It  seems  as  if  I'd  woke  from  a  mighty  ticklish 

dream ; 
And  I  think  she  "  smells  a  rat,"  for  she  smiles 

at  me  so  queer, 
I  hope  she  don't ;  good  gracious  !  I  hope  that 

they  didn't  hear ! 

'Twas  one  of  her  practical  drives — she  thought 

I'd  understand  ! 
But  I'll  never  break  sod  again  till  I  get  the 

lay  of  the  land. 
But  one  thing's  settled  with  me — to  apprecl. 

ate  heaven  well, 
'Tis  good  for  a  man  to  have  some  fifteen  mi 

nutes  of  hell. 


DEDICATION  OF  GETTYSBURG  CEMETERY. 


PRESIDENT   LINCOLN. 


il^  OURSCORE  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought  forth  upoc 

l^i     this  continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to 

i|L       the  proposition  that  al]  men  are  created  equah      Now  we  are  en- 

^         gaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether  that  nation,  or  any 

I     nation,  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can  long  endure.     We  are  met 

t     on  a  great  battle-field  of  that  war.      We  are  met  to  dedicate  a  por 
10 


142 


OVER  THE  RIVER. 


tion  of  it  as  the  final  resting-place  of  tliose  who  here  gave  their  lives  that 
that  nation  might  live. 

It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper  that  we  should  do  this.  But  in  a 
larger  sense  we  cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot  consecrate,  we  cannot  hallow 
this  ground.  The  brave  men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here,  have 
consecrated  it  far  above  our  power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world  will  little 
note,  nor  long  remember  what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never  forget  what 
they  did  here. 

It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather  to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished 
work  they  have  thus  far  so  nobly  carried  on.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here 
dedicated  to  the  great  task  remaining  before  us,  that  from  these  honored 
dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  the  cause  for  which  they  gave  the  last 
full  measure  of  devotion ;  that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead  shall 
not  have  died  in  vain,  that  the  nation  shall,  under  God,  have  a  new  birth 
of  freedom,  and  that  the  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  and  for 
the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth. 


OVER    THE  RIVER. 


N.  A.  W 

0:\'ER  the  river  they  beckon  to  me, 
Loved  ones  who   crossed  to   the 
.         '  other  side; 

'  ;*   The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 
But  their  voices  are  drowned  by 
the  rushing  tide. 
There's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold. 
And   eyes  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own 
blue ; 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  pale  misthid  him  from  mortal  view. 
We  saw  not  the  angels  that  met  him  there — 

The  gate  of  the  city  we  could  not  see ; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands,  waiting  to  welcome  me. 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 
Carried  another,  the  household  pet ; 

Her  brown  curls  wavnf]  in  the  gontlo  gale — 
Darling  Minnie!  I  sfo  her  yet! 

f-hs  closed  ■jV.  h<T  bosom  her  dimpled  hands. 
And  fearlessly  entered  th'J  phantom  liark ; 


PRIEST. 


We  watched  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 
And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark. 

We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  further  side, 
Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be ; 

Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river. 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores, 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman,  cold  and  pale; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 

And  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  snowy  sail ; 
And  lo !  they  have  passed  from  our  yearning 
hearts — 

They  cross  the  stream  and  are  gone  for  ayo. 
We  may  not  sunder  the  vail  apart 

That   hides   from    our  vision  (he  gates  o! 
day; 
We  only  know  that  tlicir  barks  no  more 

Sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea; 
Yet  sonu'wlifrc,  I  know,  on  (ho  unscon  ahora 

They  watch,  and   bc'.:kon,  and    wait    fM 
mo. 


DE  PINT  WID  OLD  PETE. 


143 


And  I  sit  and  think  when  the  sunset's  gold 
Is  flashing  on  river,  and  hill,  and  shore, 

I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  waters  cold 
And  list  to  the  sound  of  tlie  boatman's  oar. 

1  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail ; 
1  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand . 


I  shall  jiass  from  sight  with  the  boatman  pak 
To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit-land. 

I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before^ 
And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 

When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 
The  angel  of  death  shall  carry  me. 


DE  PINT  WID  OLD  PETE. 


^PON  the  hurricane  deck  of  one  of  our  gunboats,  an  elderly  darkey, 
s^i^ggl  with  a  very  philosophical  and  retrospective  cast  of  countenance, 
"^"■^^     squatted  on  his  bundle,  toast- 

t     ing  his  shins  against  the  chim- 

J  ney  and  apparently  plunged  into  a 
state  of  profound  meditation.  Finding 
upon  inquiry,  that  he  belonged  to  the 
Ninth  Illinois,  one  of  the  most  gallantly 
behaved  and  heavy  losing  regiments  at 
the  Fort  Donaldson  battle,  I  began  to 
interrogate  him  upon  the  subject. 

"  Were  you  in  the  fight?" 

"Had  a  little  taste  of  it,  sa." 

"Stood  your  ground,  did  you?" 

"  No,  sa,  I  runs." 

"  Eun  at  the  first  fire,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sa,  and  would  hab  run  soona, 
had  I  know'd  it  war  comin'." 

"Why,  that  wasn't  very  creditable  to  your  courage." 

"  Massa,  dat  isn't  my  line,  sa ;  cookin's  my  profeshun." 

"  Well,  but  have  you  no  regard  for  your  re-       V 
putation  ?  " 

"  Yah,  yah  !  reputation's  nuffin  to  me  by  de 
side  ob  life." 

"  Do  you  consider  your  life  worth  more  than 
other  people's  ?  " 

"  It  is  worth  more  to  me,  sa." 

"  Then  you  must  value  it  very  highly." 

"  ^'es,  sa,  I  does  ;  more  dan  all  dis  world,  more 
dan  a  million  ob  dollars,  sa ;  for  what  would  dat 
be  worth  to  a  man  wid  de  brof  out  of  him? 
Self-preservation  am  de  first  law  wid  me."  ..jj^  g^_  j  runs.' 


144 


I  SEE  THEE  STILL. 


"  But  why  should  you  act  upon  a  different  rule  from  other  men  ?  " 

"  Because  different  men  set  different  values  upon  their  lives ;  mine  is 
not  in  de  market." 

"  But  if  you  lost  it,  you  would  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
you  died  for  your  country." 

"  What  satisfaction  would  dat  be  to  me  when  de  power  ob  feelin'  was 


gone 


9" 


"  Then  patriotism  and  honor  are  nothing  to  you  ?  " 

"  Nuffin  whatever,  sa;  I  regard  them  as  among  the  vanities." 

"  If  our  soldiers  were  like  you,  traitors  might  have  broken  up  the 

government  without  resistance." 

"  Yes,  sa;  dar  would  hab  been  no  help  for  it." 

"  Do  you  think  any  of  your  company  would  have  missed  you  if  you 

had  been  killed  ?  " 

"  Maybe  not,  sa ;    a  dead  white  man  ain't  much  to  dese  sogers,  let 

alone  a  dead  nigga;  but  I'd  miss  myself,  and  dat  was  de  pint  wid  me." 


/  SEE   THEE  STILL. 


CHARLES   SPRAGUE. 


ROCK'D  her  in  the  cradle, 

And  laid  her  in  the  tomb.     She  was  the 

youngest. 
What  fireside  circle  hath  not  felt  the 

J  charm 

Of  that  sweet  tie  ?    The  youngest  ne'er 
grow  old, 
The  fond  endearments  of  our  earlier  days 
W(;  keep  alive  in  them,  and  when  they  die 
Our  youthful  joys  we  bury  with  them. 

I  see  thee  still  , 
Eemembrance,  faithful  to  licr  trust, 
Calls  thee  in  beauty  from  the  dust ; 
Thou  comest  in  the  morning  light, 
Thou'rt  with  nif  tlirough  the  gloomy  night; 
In  dreams  I  meet  thfe  as  of  old; 
Th'm  tliy  soft  arms  my  neck  enfold 
.And  thy  sweet  voice  is  in  my  ear; 
[a  every  scene  to  memory  dear, 

I  SCO  thee  still. 


I  see  thee  still; 
In  every  hallow'd  token  round ; 
This  little  ring  thy  finger  bound, 
This  lock  of  hair  thy  forehead  shaded, 
This  silken  chain  by  thee  was  braided. 
These  flowers,  all  wither'd  now,  like  thee, 
Sweet  Sister,  thou  didst  cull  for  mo  ; 
This  book  was  thine;  here  didst  thou  road; 
This  picture — ah  1  yes,  here  indeed 

I  see  thee  still. 

I  SCO  thee  still ; 
Hero  was  thy  summer  noon's  retreat, 
Hero  was  thy  favorite  fireside  seat ; 
This  was  thy  chamber — here,  each  day, 
I  sat  and  watch'd  thy  sad  decay  : 
Here,  on  this  bed,  thou  last  didst  lie; 
Here,  on  this  pillow, — thou  didst  die. 
Dark  hour!  once  more  its  woes  unfold. 
As  then  I  saw  tlieo,  pale  and  cold, 

I  see  thee  still. 


EXECUTION  OF  JOAN  OF  ARC. 


145 


1  see  thee  still. 
Thou  art  not  in  the  grave  confined — 
Death  cannot  claim  the  immortal  Mind  ■. 
Let  Earth  close  o'er  its  sacred  trust, 
But  Goodness  dies  not  in  the  dust ; 


Thee,  0  my  Sister  !  'tis  not  thee 
Beneath  the  coffin's  lid  I  see ; 
Thou  to  a  fairer  land  art  gone ; 
There,  let  me  hope,  ray  journey  done. 
To  see  thee  still ! 


EXECUTION  OF  JOAN  OF  ARC. 


THOMAS    DE  QUINCEY. 


AVING  placed  the  king  on  his  throne,  it  was  her  fortune  thence- 
forward  to  be  thwarted.     More  than  one  military  plan  was  en- 


tered upon  which  she  did  not  approve.  Too  well  she  felt  that  the 
end  was  now  at  hand.  Still,  she  continued  to  expose  her  person 
in  battle  as  before ;  severe  wounds  had  not  taught  her  caution ; 
and  at  length  she  was  made  prisoner  by  the  Burgundians,  and 
finajly  given  up  to' the  English.  The  object  now  was  to  vitiate  the  coro' 
nation  of  Charles  VII,  as  the  work  of  a  witch  ;  and,  for  this  end,  Joan  was 
tried  for  sorcery.  She  resolutely  defended  herself  from  the  absurd  ac- 
cusation. 

Never,  from  the  foundation  of  the  earth,  was  there  such  a  trial  as 
this,  if  it  were  laid  open  in  all  its  beauty  of  defence,  and  all  its  malignity 
of  attack.  0,  child  of  France,  shepherdess,  peasant- girl !  trodden  under 
foot  by  all  around  thee,  how  I  honor  thy  flashing  intellect, — quick  as  the 
lightning,  and  as  true  to  its  mark, — that  ran  before  France  and  laggard 
Europe  by  many  a  century,  confounding  the  malice  of  the  ensnarer,  and 
making  dumb  the  oracles  of  falsehood !  "  Would  you  examine  me  as  a 
witness  against  myself?"  was  the  question  by  which  many  times  she 
defied  their  arts.  The  result  of  this  trial  was  the  condemnation  of  Joan  to 
be  burnt  alive.  Never  did  grim  inquisitors  doom  to  death  a  fairer  victim 
by  hasen^  means. 

Woman,  sister !  there  are  some  things  which  you  do  not  execute  aa 
well  as  your  brother,  man ;  no,  nor  ever  will.  Yet,  sister,  woman  !  cheer- 
fully, and  with  the  love  that  burns  in  depths  of  admiration,  I  acknowledge 
that  you  can  do  one  thing  as  well  as  the  best  of  men, — you  can  die 
grandly!  On  the  twentieth  of  May,  1431,  being  then  about  nineteen 
years  of  age,  Joan  of  Arc  underwent  her  martyrdom.  She  was  conducted 
before  mid-day,  guarded  by  eight  spearmen,  to  a  platform  of  prodigious 
height,  constructed  of  wooden  billets,  supported  by  occasional  walls  of  lath 


146 


THE  CORAL  INSECT. 


and  plaster,  and  traversed  by  hollow  spaces  in  every  direction,  for  the 
creation  of  air-currents. 

With  an  undaunted  soul,  but  a  meek  and  saintly  demeanor,  the 
maiden  encountered  her  terrible  fate.  Upon  her  head  was  placed  a  mitre, 
bearing  t?i3  inscription,  " Helapsed  heretic,  apostate,  idolatress."  Her  piety 
displayed  itseK  in  the  most  touching  manner  to  the  last,  and  her  angelic 
forgetfulness  of  self  was  manifest  in  a  most  remarkable  degree.  The 
executioner  had  been  directed  to  apply  his  torch  from  below.  He  did  so. 
The  fiery  smoke  rose  upwards  in  billowing  volumes.  A  monk  was  then 
standing  at  Joan's  side.  Wrapt  up  in  his  sublime  office,  he  saw  not  the 
danger,  but  still  persisted  in  his  prayers.  Even  then,  when  the  last 
enemy  was  racing  up  the  fiery  stairs  to  seize  her,  even  at  that  moment, 
did  this  noblest  of  girls  think  only  for  him,— the  one  friend  that  would 
not  forsake  her, — and  not  for  herself;  bidding  him  with  her  last  breath  to 
care  for  his  own  preservation,  but  to  leave  her  to  God.  "Go  down,"  she 
said  ;  "  lift  up  the  cross  before  me,  that  I  may  see  it  in  dying,  and  speak 
to  me  pious  words  to  the  end."  Then  protesting  her  innocence,  and 
recommending  her  soul  to  Heaven,  she  continued  to  pray  as  the  flajnes 
leaped  up  and  walled  her  in.  Her  last  audible  word  was  the  name  of 
Jesus.  Sustained  by  feith  in  Him,  in  her  last  fight  upon  the  scaffold,  she 
had  triumphed  gloriously ;  victoriously  she  had  tasted  death. 

Few  spectators  of  this  martyrdom  were  so  hardened  as  to  contain 
their  tears.  All  the  English,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  soldiers  who 
made  a  jest  of  the  affair,  were  deeply  moved.  The  French  murmured  that 
the  death  was  cruel  and  unjust.  "  She  dies  a  martyr !  "  "  Ah,  we  are 
lost,  we  have  burned  a  saint !  "  "  Would  to  God  that  my  soul  were  with 
hers !  "  Such  were  the  exclamations  on  every  side.  A  fanatic  English 
soldier,  who  had  sworn  to  throw  a  fagot  on  the  funeral-pile,  hearing  Joan's 
last  prayer  to  her  Saviour,  suddenly  turned  away,  a  penitent  for  life,  say- 
ing everywhere  that  he  had  seen  a  dove,  rising  upon  white  wings  to 
heaven  from  the  ashes  where  she  stood. 


TlfE  CORAL  INSECT. 


MRS.  SIGOUKNKY. 


)IL  on!  toil  on!  ye  ephemeral  train, 
Wlio  buiM  in  the  tossing  and  treach- 
•/(fe^itj        erouH  main ; 
^       Toil  on — for  the  wiflflom  u\'  man  ye 


! 


With  your  sand-baficd  Btructurcs  ami  domes 

of  rock  ; 
Your  columnH  the  futhomlcsH  fountiiins  lavo, 
And  your  arches  spring  up  to   the  crested 


mock.  wave; 


THE  COKAL  INSECT. 


147 


Ye're  a  puny  race,  thus  to  boldly  rear 
A  fabric  so  vast,  in  a  realm  so  drear. 
Ye  bind  the  deep  with  your  secret  zone, 
The  ocean  is  seal'd,  and  the  surge  a  stone; 
Fresh   wreaths   from    the    coral    pavement 

spring, 
Like  the  terraced  pride  of  Assyria's  king ; 

The   turf  looks   green    where   the   breakers 

roll'd  ; 
O'er  the  whirlpool  ripens  the  rind  of  gold ; 
The  sea-snatch'd  i.sle  is  the  home  of  men. 


There's  a  poison-drop  in  man's  purest  cup  ; 
There   are   foes   that   watch   for   his  cradle 

breath ; 
And  why  need  ye  sow  the  floods  with  death? 
With  mouldering  bones  the  deeps  are  white, 
From    the    ice-clad    pole    to    the    tropics 

bright ; 
The  mermaid  hath  twisted  her  fingers  cold 
With    the   mesh    of  the   sea-boy's   curls   of 

gold. 
And  the  gods  of  ocean  have  frown'd  to  see 
The  mariner's  bed  in  their  halls  of  glee ; 


CORAL    KEEF    EUILDEK.S 


And  the  mountains  exult  where  the  wave 
hath  been. 

But  why  do  ye  plant  'neath  the  billows  dark 
The  wrecking  reef  for  the  gallant  bark  ? 
There  are  snares  enough  on  the  tented  field, 
'Mid  the  blossom'd  sweets  that  the  valleys 

yield  ; 
There  are  serpents  to  coil,  ere  the  flowers  are 

up; 


Hath  earth  no  graves,  that  ye   thus  must 
spread 


Ye  build — ye  build — but  ye  enter  not  in. 
Like  the  tribes  whom  the  desert  devour'd  in 

their  sin ; 
From  the  land  of  promise  ye  fade  and  die, 
Ere  its  verdure  gleams  forth  on  your  weary 

eye; 


l^Q  THE  COMING  OF  THANKSGIVING. 


As   the    kings    of   the  cloud-crown'd    pyra- 
mid. 


Ye  slumber  unmark'd  'mid  the  desolate  main, 
While  the  wonder  and  pride  of  your  works 


Their  noteless  bones  in  oblivion  hid,  '  remain. 


THF  COMIKG  OF  THANKSGIVING. 


CHARLES   DUDLEY    ^VARNER. 


^P^NE  of  the  best  things  in  farming  is  gathering  the  chestnuts,  hickory- 
^yP  nuts,  butternuts,  and  even  bush-nuts,  in  the  late  fall,  after  the 
'%  frosts  have  cracked  the  husks,  and  the  high  winds  have  shaken 
I*  them,  and  the  colored  leaves  have  strewn  the  ground.  On  a 
I  bright  October  day,  when  the  air  is  full  of  golden  sunshine,  there 
is  nothing  quite  so  exhilarating  as  going  nutting.  Nor  is  the  pleasure  of 
it  altogether  destroyed  for  the  boy  by  the  consideration  that  he  is  making 
himself  useful  in  obtaining  supplies  for  the  winter  household.  The  getting- 
in  of  potatoes  and  corn  is  a  different  thing ;  that  is  the  prose,  but  nutting 
is  the  poetry  of  farm  life.  I  am  not  sure  but  the  boy  would  find  it  very 
irksome,  though,  if  he  were  obliged  to  work  at  nut-gathering  in  order  to 
procure  food  for  the  family.  He  is  willing  to  make  himself  useful  in  his 
own  way.  The  Italian  boy,  who  works  day  after  day  at  a  huge  pile  of 
pine-cones,  pounding  and  cracking  them  and  taking  out  the  long  seeds, 
which  are  sold  and  eaten  as  we  eat  nuts  (and  which  are  almost  as  good  as 
pumpkin-seeds,  another  favorite  with  Italians),  probably  does  not  see  the 
fun  of  nutting.  Indeed,  if  the  farmer-boy  here  were  set  at  pounding  off 
the  walnut-shucks  and  opening  the  prickly  chestnut-burs,  as  a  task,  he 
would  think  himself  an  ill-used  boy.  What  a  hardship  the  prickles  in  his 
fingers  would  be  !  But  now  he  digs  them  out  with  his  jack-knife,  and 
enjoys  the  process  on  the  whole.  The  boy  is  willing  to  do  any  amount  of 
work  if  it  is  called  play. 

In  nutting,  the  squirrel  is  not  more  nimble  and  industrious  than  the 
boy.  I  like  to  see  a  crowd  of  boys  swarm  over  a  cliestnut  grove ;  they 
leave  a  desert  behind  them  like  the  seventeen  years  locusts.  To  climb  a 
tree  and  shake  it,  to  club  it,  to  strip  it  of  its  fruit  and  pass  to  the  next,  is 
the  sport  of  a  bri<M'  time.  I  have  seen  a  legion  of  boys  seamj)er  over  our 
grcOHs-plot  under  tin;  cliestnut-tnics,  eacli  one  as  active  as  if  he  w(!re  a  new 
patent  picking-in;ichinc,  sweeping  the  ground  cl(^an  of  nuts,  and  disappear 
over  the  hill  })ofore  I  could  go  to  tlu;  door  and  speak  to  them  about  it. 
Indeed  I  have  noticed  that  boys   don't  care   much   for   conversation  witli 


THE  COMING  OF  THANKSGIVING. 


149 


the  owners  of  fruit-troos.  They  could  speedily  make  their  fortunts  if  they 
would  work  as  rapidly  in  cotton-fields.  I  have  never  seen  anything  like 
H  except  a  flock  of  turkeys  busily  employed  removing  grasshoppers  from 
a  piece  of  pasture. 


The  New  England  boy  used  to  look  forward  to  Thanksgiving  as  the 
great  event  of  the  year.  He  was  apt  to  get  stents  set  him,  — so  much  corn 
to  husk,  for  instance,  before  that  day,  so  that  he  could  have  an  extra  play- 
spell  ;  and  in  order  to  gain  a  day  or  two,  he  would  work  at  his  task  with 
the  rapidity  of  half-a-dozen  boys.  He  had  the  day  after  Thanksgiving 
always  as  a  holiday,  and  this  was  the  day  he  counted  on.  Thanksgiving 
itself  was  rather  an  awful  festival, — very  much  like  Sunday,  except  for 
the  enormous  dinner,  which  filled  his  imagination  for  months  before  as 
completely  as  it  did  his  stomach  for  that  day  and  a  week  after.  There 
was  an  impression  in  the  house  that  that  dinner  was  the  most  important 
event  since  the  landing  from  the  Mayflower.  Heliogabalus,  who  did  not 
resemble  a  Pilgrim  Father  at  all,  but  who  had  prepared  for  himself  in  his 


150  THE  COMING  OF  THANKSGIVING. 

day  some  very  sumptuous  banquets  in  Eorae,  and  ate  a  great  deal  of  the 
best  he  could  get  (and  liked  peacocks  stuffed  with  asafoetida  for  one 
thing),  never  had  anything  like  a  Thanksgiving  dinner;  for  do  you  sup- 
pose that  he,  or  Sardanapalus  either,  ever  had  twenty-four  ditferent 
kinds  of  pie  at  one  dinner  ?  Therein  many  a  New  England  boy  is  greater 
than  the  Roman  emperor  or  the  Assyrian  king,  and  these  were  among  the 
most  luxurious  eaters  of  their  day  and  generation.  But  something  more 
is  necessary  to  make  good  men  than  plenty  to  eat,  as  Heliogabalus  no 
doubt  found  when  his  head  was  cut  off.  Cutting  off  the  head  was  a  mode 
the  people  had  of  expressing  disapproval  of  their  conspicuous  men.  Nowa- 
days they  elect  them  to  a  higher  office,  or  give  them  a  mission  to  some 
foreign  country,  if  they  do  not  do  well  where  they  are. 

For  days  and  days  before  Tlianksgiving  the  boy  was  kept  at  work 
evenings,  pounding  and  paring  and  cutting  up  and  mixing  (not  being 
allowed  to  taste  much),  until  the  world  seemed  to  him  to  be  made  of 
fragrant  spices,  green  fruit,  raisins,  and  pastry, — a  world  that  he  was  only 
yet  allowed  to  enjoy  through  his  nose.  How  filled  the  house  was  with  the 
most  delicious  smells !  The  mince-pies  that  were  made !  If  John  had 
been  shut  up  in  solid  walls  with  them  piled  about  him,  he  couldn't  have 
eaten  his  way  out  in  four  weeks.  There  were  dainties  enough  cooked  in 
those  two  weeks  to  have  made  the  entire  year  luscious  with  good  living,  if 
they  had  been  scattered  along  in  it.  But  people  were  probably  all  the 
better  for  scrimping  themselves  a  little  in  order  to  make  this  a  great  feast. 
And  it  was  not  by  any  means  over  in  a  day.  There  were  weeks  deep  of 
chicken-pie  and  other  |)astry.  The  cold  buttery  was  a  cave  of  Aladdin, 
and  it  took  a  long  time  to  excavate  all  its  riches. 

Thanksgiving  Day  itself  was  a  heavy  day,  the  hilarity  of  it  being  so 
subdued  by  going  to  meeting,  and  the  universal  wearing  of  the  Sunday 
clothes,  that  the  boy  couldn't  see  it.  But  if  he  felt  little  exhilaration,  he 
ate  a  great  deal.  The  next  day  was  the  real  holiday.  Then  were  the 
merry-making  parties,  and  perhaps,  the  skatings  and  sleigh-rides,  for  the 
freezing  weather  came  before  the  governor's  proclamation  in  many  parts 
of  New  England.  The  night  after  Thanksgiving  occurred,  perhaps,  the 
first  real  party  that  the  l)oy  had  ever  attendf^d,  with  live  girls  in  it, 
dressed  80  bewi tellingly.  And  there  he  heard  those  ])hilaii(l.'i-ing  songs, 
and  played  those  sweet  games  of  forfeits,  which  put  him  quiU;  b(\side  him- 
self, and  kei)t  him  awake  that  night  till  the  rooster  crowed  at  the  end  of 
liis  first  chicken-nap.  What  a  new  world  did  that  party  open  to  hitn  ! 
I  think  it  likely  that  ho  saw  there,  and  proliably  did  not  dare  say  ten  words 
to,  some  tall,  graceful  girl,  much  older  than  himself,  who  seemed  to  him 


THE  PUZZLED  DUTCHMAN. 


151 


like  a  new  order  of  being.  He  could  see  her  face  just  as  plainly  in  the 
darkness  of  his  chamber.  He  wondered  if  she  noticed  how  awkward  ho 
was,  and  how  short  his  trousers-legs  were.  He  blushed  as  he  thought  of 
his  rather  ill-fitting  shoes ;  and  determined,  then  and  there,  that  he 
wojildn't  be  put  off  with  a  ribbon  any  longer,  but  would  have  a  young 
man's  necktie.  It  was  somewhat  painful  thinking  the  party  over,  but  it 
was  delicious,  too.  He  did  not  think,  probably,  that  he  w(ju!d  die  for  that 
tall,  handsome  girl ;  he  did  iiot  put  it  exactly  in  that  way.  But  he  rather 
resolved  to  live  for  her, — which  might  in  the  end  amoui.t  to  the  same 
thing.  At  least  he  thought  that  nobody  would  live  to  si.cak  twice  dis- 
respectfully of  her  in  his  presence. 


THE  PUZZLED  DUTCHMAN. 


CHARLES    F,  ADAMS. 


'M  a  proken-hearted  Deutscher, 

Vot's  villed  mit  crief  und  shame. 
I  dells  you  vot  der  drouple  ish : 
/  doosnt  know  my  name. 

You  dink's  dis  fery  vunny,  eh  ? 

Yen  you  der  schtory  hear, 
You  vill  not  vonder  den  so  mooch, 

It  vas  so  schtrange  und  queer. 


Mine  moder  had  dwo  leedlc  hvins: 
Dey  vas  me  und  mine  broder  : 

Ve  lookt  so  fery  mooch  alike, 
No  von  knew  vich  vrom  toder. 

Von  off  der  poys  vas  "  Yawf ob," 
Und  "Hans"  der  oder's  nama: 

But  den  it  made  no  tifferent ; 
Ve  both  got  called  der  same. 


152 


ARTEMUS  WARD  AT  THE  TOMB  OF  SHAKSFEARE. 


Vel! !  von  off  us  got  tead, — 

Und  so  I  am  in  drouples : 

Yaw,  Mynheer,  dot  ish  so ! 

I  gan't  kit  droo  mine  hed 

But  vedder  Hans  or  Yawcob, 

Vedder  Tm  Hans  vol's  lifing, 

Mine  moder  she  don'd  know. 

Or  Yawcob  vot  is  tead! 

KRTEMUS  WARD  AT  THE  TOMB  OF  SHAKSFEARE, 


CHARLES    F.    BROWNE. 


Ip'VE  been  lingcrin  by  the  Tomb  of  the  lamentid  Shakspeare. 

1^         It  is  a  success. 

d^         I  do  not  hes'tate  to  pronounce  it  as  such. 

fYou  may  make  any  use  of  this  opinion  that  you  see  fit.  If  you 
think  its  pubhcation  will  subswerve  the  cause  of  litteratoor,  you  may 
publicate. 

I  told  my  wife  Betsey,  whtjn  I  left  home,  that  I  should  go  to  the  birth- 
place of  the  orthur  of  Otheller  and  other  Plays.  She  said  that  as  long  as  I 
kept  out  of  Newgate  she  didn't  care  where  I  went.  "  But,"  I  said,  "  don't 
you  know  he  waa  the  greatest  Poit  that  ever  lived  ?  Not  one  of  those 
common  poits,  like  that  young  idyit  who  writes  verses  to  our  daughter, 
about  the  Roses  ;i8  groses,  and  tlu;  breezes  as  blowses — but  a  JJoss  poit — 
also  a  [)hilo8ophor,  also  a  man  who  knew  a  great  deal  about  everything." 

Yes.  I've  b<;f!n  to  Stratford  onto  the  Avon,  tin'  Birth-})laco  of 
Shakospojire.  Mr.  S.  is  now  no  mon;.  He's  been  dead  over  three  him- 
drod  (300)  years.  The  peple  of  his  native  town  arc  justly  proud  of  him. 
They  cheri.sh  his  mem'ry,  and  thetn  a.s  sell  picturs  of  his  birth-place,  &c., 


LAST  HOURS  OF  WEBSTER.  I53 


make  it  prof'tiblo  cherishin  it.  Almost  everybody  buys  a  pictur  to  put 
into  their  Albiom. 

"  And  this,"  I  said,  as  I  stood  in  the  old  church-yard  at  Stratford, 
beside  a  Tombstone,  "  this  marks  the  spot  where  lies  William  W.  Shakes- 
peare.    Alars  !  and  this  is  the  spot  where — " 

"You've  got  the  wrong  grave,"  said  a  man, — a  worthy  villager." 
"  Shakespeare  is  buried  inside  the  church." 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  a  boy  told  me  this  was  it."  The  boy  larfed  and  put 
the  shillin  I'd  given  him  into  his  left  eye  in  a  inglorious  manner,  and  com- 
menced moving  backwards  towards   the  street. 

I  pursood  and  captered  him,  and,  after  talking  to  him  a  spell  in  a 
sarkastic  stile,  I  let  him  went. 

William  Shakespeare  was  born  in  Stratford  in  1564.  All  the  com- 
mentators, Shaksperian  scholars,  etsetry,  are  agreed  on  this,  which  is 
about  the  only  thing  they  are  agreed  on  in  regard  to  him,  except  that  his 
mantle  hasn't  fallen  onto  any  poet  or  dramatist  hard  enough  to  hurt 
said  poet  or  dramatist  much.  And  there  is  no  doubt  if  these  commen- 
tators and  persons  continner  investigatin  Shakspeare's  career,  we  shall  not 
in  doo  time,  know  anything  about  it  at  all.  When  a  mere  lad  little 
William  attended  the  Grammar  School,  because,  as  he  said,  the  Grammar 
School  wouldn't  attend  him.  This  remarkable  remark  coming  from  one 
so  young  and  inexperunced,  set  peple  to  thinkin  there  might  be  something 
in  this  lad.  He  subsequently  wrote  Hamlet  and  George  Barnwell.  When 
his  kind  teacher  went  to  London  to  accept  a  position  in  the  offices  of  the 
Metropolitan  Kailway,  little  William  was  chosen  by  his  fellow-pupils  to 
deliver  a  farewell  address.  "  Go  on,  sir,"  he  said,  "  in  a  glorous  career. 
Be  like  a  eagle,  and  soar,  and  the  soarer  you  get  the  more  we  shall  be 
gratified!     That's  so." 


LAST  HOURS  OF  WEBSTER. 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 


MONG  the  many  memorable  words  which  fell  from  the  lips  of  our 
friend  just  before  they  were  closed  forever,  the  most  remarkable 
^     are  those  which  have  been  quoted  by  a  previous  speaker :  "  I  still 
live."     They  attest  the  serene  composure  of  his  mind,  the  Chris- 
tian heroism  with  which  he  was   able  to  turn  his  consciousness  in 
upon  himself,  and  explore,  step  by  step,  the  dark  passage,  (dark  to 


X54  I'-^T'S  CRITICISM. 


US,  but  to  him,  we  trust,  already  lighted  from  above),  which  connects  this 
world  with  the  world  to  come.  But  I  know  not  what  words  could  have 
been  better  chosen  to  express  his  relation  to  the  world  he  was  leaving, — 
"  I  still  live."  This  poor  dust  is  just  returning  to  the  dust  from  which  it 
was  taken,  but  I  feel  that  I  live  in  the  affections  of  the  people  to  whose 
services  I  have  consecrated  my  days.  "  I  still  live."  The  icy  hand  of 
death  is  already  laid  on  my  heart,  but  I  shall  still  live  in  those  words  of 
counsel  which  I  have  uttered  to  my  fellow-citizens,  and  which  I  now  leave 
them  as  the  bequest  of  a  dying  friend. 

In  the  long  and  honored  career  of  our  lamented  friend,  there  are 
efforts  and  triumphs  which  will  hereafter  fill  one  of  the  brightest  pages  of 
our  history.  But  I  greatly  err  if  the  closing  scene, — the  height  of  the 
religious  sublime, — does  not,  in  the  judgment  of  other  days,  far  transcend 
in  interest  the  brightest  exploits  of  public  life.  Within  that  darkened 
chamber  at  Marshfield  was  witnessed  a  scene  of  which  we  shall  not  readily 
find  the  parallel.  The  serenity  with  which  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  the 
King  of  terrors,  without  trepidation  or  flutter,  for  hours  and  days  of 
expectation ;  the  thoughtfulness  for  the  public  business  when  the  sands  of 
life  were  so  nearly  run  out ;  the  hospitable  care  for  the  reception  of  the 
friends  who  came  to  Marshfield ;  that  affectionate  and  solemn  leave  sepa- 
rately taken,  name  by  name,  of  wife,  and  children,  and  kindred,  and 
family, — down  to  the  humblest  members  of  the  household  ;  the  designation 
of  the  coming  day,  then  near  at  hand,  when  "  all  that  was  mortal  of 
Daniel  Webster  should  cease  to  exist;"  the  dimly-recollected  strains  of 
the  funeral  poetry  of  Gray;  the  last  faint  flash  of  the  soaring  intellect;  the 
feebly-murmured  words  of  Holy  Writ  repeated  from  the  lips  of  the  good 
physician,  who,  when  all  the  resources  of  human  art  had  been  exhausted, 
had  a  drop  of  spiritual  balm  for  the  parting  soul ;  the  clasped  hands ;  the 
dying  prayers.  Oh !  my  fellow-citizens,  this  is  a  consummation  over 
which  tears  of  pious  sympathy  will  be  shed  ages  after  the  glories  of  the 
forum  and  the  senate  are  forgotten. 


FA  T>S  CRITICISM. 


CHARLES   F.   ADAMS. 


HERE'S  a  story  tiiat  s  oLI, 
Hut  goo'l  if  twice  toll], 


Wlio  rurod  bo.-uil.  and  man 
On  tho  "  cold-wak-r  plan," 


jv'        Of  a  doctor  of  limited  skill,  I       Without  tho  small  help  of  a  piU. 


FAT'S  CRITICISM. 


156 


On  his  portal  of  pine 
Hung  an  elegant  sign, 

Depicting  a  beautiful  rill, 

And  a  lake  where  a  sprite, 
With  apparent  delight, 

Wfts  sporting  in  sweet  dishabille. 


When  the  doctor  with  pride 
Stepped  up  to  his  side. 
Saying,  "Pat,  how  is  that  lor  a  signi' 

"  There's  wan  thing,"  says  Pat, 
"You've  lift  out  o'  that, 
Which,  be  jabers  !  is  quoite  a  mistake 


Pat  McCarty  one  day, 
As  he  sauntered  that  way. 
Stood  and  gazed  at  that  portal  of  pine ; 


It's  trim  and  it's  nate; 
But,  to  make  it  complate, 
Ye  shud  have  a  foine  burd  on  tne  late' 


166 


THE  LITTLE  MATCH-GIRL. 


"Ah  •  indeed !  pray  ihen,  tell, 
To  make  it  look  well, 
Wtat  bird  do  you  think  it  may  lack?" 


Says  Pat,  "  Of  the  same 
I've  forgotten  the  name, 
But  the  song  that  he  sings  is '  Quack !  quack !' 


THE  LITTLE  MATCH-GIRL. 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN. 


^T  was  very  cold,  the  snow  fell,  and  it  was  almost  quite  dark  ;  for  it 
was  evening — yes,  the  last  evening  of  the  year.  Amid  the  cold  and 
the  darkness,  a  poor  little  girl,  with  bare  head  and  naked  feet,  was 
roaming  through  the  streets.  It  is  true  she  had  a  pair  of  slippers 
when  she  left  home,  but  they  were  not  of  much  use.  They  were  very 
large  slippers ;  so  large,  indeed,  that  they  had  hitherto  been  used  by  her 
mother;  besides,  the  little  creature  lost  them  as  she  hurried  across  the 
street,  to  avoid  two  carriages  that  were  driving  very  quickly  past.  One 
of  the  slippers  was  not  to  be  found,  and  the  other  was  pounced  upon  by  a 
boy,  who  ran  away  with  it,  saying  that  it  would  serve  for  a  cradle  when 
he  should  have  children  of  his  own.  So  the  little  girl  went  along,  with 
her  little  bare  feet  that  were  red  and  blue  with  cold.  She  carried  a 
number  of  matches  in  an  old  apron,  and  she  held  a  bundle  of  tli.in  in  hor 
hand.  Nobody  had  bought  anything  from  hor  the  whole  livelong  day  ; 
nobody  ha<l  even  given  her  a  ]»enny. 

Shivering  with  cold  and  liunger,  she  crept  along,  a  p('rt<'(;t  iiicturo  of 
misery — poor  little  thing !  The  snow-flakes  covered  her  long,  llax(!n  hair, 
whir-h  hung  in  jirctty  curls  round  her  throat ;  but  .sli(>.  hccdcid  them  not 
now.  Lights  were  streaming  from  all  th<i  windows,  and  there  was  a 
savory  smell  of  roast  goose;  fur  it  was  New  Year's  Eve  And  lliis  she 
lid  heed. 


THE  LITTLE  MATCH-GIRL.  157 

She  now  sat  down,  cowering  in  a  corner  formed  by  two  houses,  one 
of  which  projected  beyond  the  other.  She  had  drawn  her  little  feet  under 
her,  but  she  felt  colder  than  ever ;  yet  she  dared  not  return  home,  for  she 
had  not  sold  a  match,  and  could  not  bring  home  a  penny !  She  would 
certainly  be  beaten  by  her  father;  and  it  was  cold  enough  at  home, 
besides — for  they  had  only  the  roof  above  them,  and  the  wind  came 
howling  through  it,  though  the  largest  holes  had  been  stopped  with 
straw  and  rags.  Her  little  hands  were  nearly  frozen  with  cold,  Alas !  a 
single  match  might  do  her  some  good,  if  she  might  only  draw  one  out  of 
the  bundle,  and  rub  it  against  the  wall,  and  warm  her  fingers. 

So  at  last  she  drew  one  out.  Ah  !  how  it  sheds  sparks,  and  how  it 
burns !  It  gave  out  a  warm,  bright  flame,  like  a  little  candle,  as  she  held 
her  hands  over  it, — truly  it  was  a  wonderful  little  sight !  It  really 
seemed  to  the  little  girl  as  if  she  were  sitting  before  a  large  iron  stove, 
with  polished  brass  feet,  and  brass  shovel  and  tongs.  The  fire  burned  so 
brightly,  and  warmed  so  nicely,  that  the  little  creature  stretched  out 
her  feet  to  warm  them  likewise,  when  lo  !  the  flame  expired,  the  stove 
vanished,  and  left  nothing  but  the  little  half-burned  match  in  her  hand. 

She  rubbed  another  match  against  the  wall.  It  gave  a  light,  and 
where  it  shone  upon  the  wall,  the  latter  became  as  transparent  as  a  veil, 
and  she  could  see  into  the  room.  A  snow-white  table-cloth  was  spread 
upon  the  table,  on  which  stood  a  splendid  china  dinner-service,  while  a 
roast  goose  stufied  with  apples  and  prunes,  sent  forth  the  most  savory 
fumes.  And  what  was  more  delightful  still  to  see,  the  goose  jumped 
down  from  the  dish,  and  waddled  along  the  ground  with  a  knife  and  fork 
in  its  breast,  up  to  the  poor  girl.  The  match  then  went  out,  and  nothing 
remained  but  the  thick,  damp  wall. 

She  lit  yet  another  match.  She  now  sat  under  the  most  magnificent 
Christmas  tree,  that  was  larger,  and  more  superbly  decked,  than  even  the 
one  she  had  seen  through  the  glass  door  at  the  rich  merchant's.  A 
thousand  tapers  burned  on  its  green  branches,  and  gay  pictures,  such  as 
one  sees  on  shields,  seemed  to  be  looking  down  upon  her.  She  stretched 
out  her  hands,  but  the  match  then  went  out.  The  Christmas  lights  kept 
rising  higher  and  higher.  They  now  looked  like  stars  in  the  sky.  One  of 
them  fell  down,  and  left  a  long  streak  of  fire.  "  Somebody  is  now  dying," 
thought  the  little  girl, — for  her  old  grandmother,  the  only  person  who  had 
ever  loved  her,  and  who  was  now  dead,  had  told  her,  that,  when  a  star 
falls,  it  is  a  sign  that  a  soul  is  going  up  to  heaven. 

She  again  rubbed  a  match  upon  the  wall,  and  it  was  again  hght  all 
round;  and  in  the  brightness  stood  her  old  grandmother,  clear  and  shining 
11 


158 


THE  RAVEN. 


like  a  spirit,  yet  looking  so  mild  and  loving.  "  Grandmother,"  cried  the 
little  one,  "oh,  take  me  with  you  !  I  know  you  will  go  away  when  the 
match  goes  out, — you  will  vanish  like  the  warm  stove,  and  the  delicious 
roast  goose,  and  the  fine,  large  Christmas-tree  !  "  And  she  made  haste  to 
rub  the  whole  bundle  of  matches,  for  she  wished  to  hold  her  grandmother 
fast.  And  the  matches  gave  a  light  that  was  brighter  than  noonday. 
Her  grandmother  had  never  appeared  so  beautiful  nor  so  large.  She  took 
the  little  girl  in  her  arms,  and  both  flew  upwards,  ah  radiant  and  joyful, 
far,  far  above  mortal  ken,  where  there  was  neither  cold,  nor  hunger,  nor 
care  to  be  found ;  where  there  was  no  rain,  no  snow,  or  stormy  wind,  but 
calm,  sunny  days  the  whole  year  round. 

But,  in  the  cold  dawn,  the  poor  girl  might  be  seen  leaning  against 
the  wall,  with  red  cheeks  and  smiling  mouth ;  she  had  been  frozen  on  the 
last  night  of  the  old  year.  The  new  year's  sun  shone  upon  the  little  dead 
girl  She  sat  still  holding  the  matches,  one  bundle  of  which  was  burned. 
People  said :  "  She  tried  to  warm  herself."  Nobody  dreamed  of  the  fine 
things  she  had  seen,  nor  in  what  splendor  she  had  entered,  along  with  her 
grandmother,  upon  the  joys  of  the  New  Year. 


THE  RA  VEN. 


EDGAR   A.    rOE. 


y'^-NCE  upon  a  midnight  drearj',  while  I 
[ifirnloro'l,  wfak  and  weary, 
Ovor   many   a    quaint  and  curious 

volume  of  forgotten  lore, — 
While    I    nodded,    nearly   napping, 
T         suddenly  there  carno  a  taii[)ing, 

As  of  Horne  one  gently  rapping,  rap- 
ping at  my  chamber-door. 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  rautter'd,  "  tapping  at 
my  chamber-door — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak 

December, 
And  ea<;h  separate  dying  ember  wrought   its 

ghost  upon  the  Boor, 
h'agerly  I  wished  the  morrow;  vainly  T  had 

sought  to  borrow 


From  my  books  .surcea«!e  of  sorrow — sorrow 

for  the  lost  Lenore, — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the 

angels  name  Lonoro, — 

Nameless  here  forcvcrmore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each 

purple  curtain, 
Thrilled  me, — filled  me  witli  fantastic  torrort 

never  felt  before  ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart, 

I  stood  repeating, 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my 

chamber-door, — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance   at  my 

chamber-door  ; 

That  it  in,  and  nothing  more." 


THE  RAVEN. 


159 


Presently  ray  soul  grew  stronger  :  hesitating 
then  no  longer, 

"Sir,"   said   I,   "  or  Madam,  truly  your  for- 
giveness I  implore ; 

But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently 
you  came  rapping, 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at 
my  chamber-door, 

That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  " — here  I 
opened  wide  the  door  : 
Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood 
there,  wondering,  fearing, 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever 
dared  to  dream  before  ; 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  still- 
ness gave  no  token. 

And   the   only  word   there   spoken   was  the 
whispered  word,  "  Lenore  !" 

This   I   whispered,  and   an  echo  murmured 
back  the  word,  "  Lenore  !" 
Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back   into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul 

within  me  burning, 
Soon  again   I   heard   a   tapping,   something 

louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"   said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something 

at  my  window-lattice  ; 
Let  me  see   then   what  thereat  is   and  this 

mystery  explore, — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this 

mystery  explore  ; — 

'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I   flung  the  shutter,  when,   with 

many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  raven  of  the  saintly 

days  of  yore. 
Not   the   least    obeisance   made   he ;    not    a 

minute  stopped  or  stayed  he  ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above 

my  chamber-door, — 
perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my 

chamber-door — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy 
into  smiling. 


By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  coun- 
tenance it  wore, 

"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure  no  craven  ; 

Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  raven,  wandering 
from  the  nightly  shore, 

Tell    me  what   thy  lordly  name   is   on   the 
night's  Plutonian  shore  ?" 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore !" 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear 

discourse  so  plainly. 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning,  littl>*  rele 

vancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living 

human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above 

his  chamber-door, 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above 

his  chamber- door 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore  !" 

But  the  raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid 
bust,  spoke  only 

That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word 
he  did  outpour. 

Nothing  further  then  he  uttered ;  not  a  feath- 
er then  he  fluttered — 

Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "  Other 
friends  have  flown  before, 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopei 
liave  flown  before. 
Then  the  bird  said,  "Nevermore!" 

Startled  at  the  stillness,  broken  by  reply  so 

aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it   utters  is  its 

only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,   whom 

unmerciful  disaster 
FoUow'd  fast  and  follow'd  faster,  till  his  songa 

one  burden  bore. 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy 

burden  bore," 

Of — '  Never — nevermore  !'  " 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul 

into  smiling. 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front 

of  bird  and  bust  and  door, 


IGO 


THE  FIRE-FIEND. 


Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  my- 
self to  linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  omi- 
nous bird  of  yore— - 

What   this   grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt, 
and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore!" 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  sylla- 
ble expressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  in- 
to my  bosom's  core ; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head 
at  ease  reclining 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp- 
light gloated  o'er. 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp- 
light gloating  o'er 
She  shall  press — ah !  nevermore ! 

Then  methought  the   air  grew  denser,  per- 
fumed from  an  unseen  censer 

Swung  by  Fera[ihim,  whose  foot-falls  tinkled 
on  the  tufted  Qoor, 

"  Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee, 
— by  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 

Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  mem- 
ories of  Lenore ! 

Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  for- 
get this  lost  Lenore !" 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore !" 

"  Prophet !"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — prophet 

still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether   tempest 

tossed  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert 

land  enchanted — 
On   this   homo   by  liorror  haunted — tell  me 

truly,  I  iiiiplurf', — 


Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Qilead  ? — tell  me 
— tell  me,  I  implore !" 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore !" 

"  Prophet !"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  I — prophet 
still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 

By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that 
God  we  both  adore. 

Tell  this  soul,  with  sorrow  laden,  if  within 
the  distant  Aidenn, 

It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden,  whom  the  an- 
gels name  Lenore ; 

Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the 
angels  name  Lenore!" 
Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore!" 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  oi 
fiend  !"  I  shrieked,  upstarting, — 

"  Get  thee   back  into   the  tempest  and   the 
night's  Plutonian  shore. 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie 
thy  soul  hath  spoken  ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken ! — quit  the 
bust  above  my  door ! 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take 
thy  form  from  off  my  door  !" 
Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore!" 

And  the  raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting, 
still  is  sitting 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my 
chamber-door ; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  de- 
mon's that  is  dreaming. 

And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws 
his  shadow  on  the  floor; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies 
floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore! 


THE  FIRE-FIEND. 


C.    D.   GARDETTE. 


}N  the  deepest  dearth  of  Midnight,  while 
the  sad  and  solemn  swell 
Still  wa.s  floating,  faintly  echoed  from 

the  Forfwt  Chapel  Bfll— 
Fainting,   faltcringly  floating  o'  er  the 
Bablo  wavea  of  air 


That  were  through  (ho  Midnight  rolling, 
chafed  and  billowy  with  the  tolling — 

In  my  chamber  I  lay  dn^aming  by  the  fire- 
light's fitful  gleaming, 

And  my  dreams  wr-ro  rlrfains  foreshadotred 
on  a  heart  furedoonuil  to  Carol 


THE  FIRE-FIEND, 


161 


As  the  last  long  lingering  echo  of  the  Mh*. 

night's  mystic  chime — 
Lifting   through     the   sable   billow.s   to    the 

Thither  Shore  of  Time- 
Leaving  on  the  starless  silence  not  a  token 

nor  a  trace — 
In   a   quivering     sigh    departed ;  from    my 

couch  in  fear  I  started : 
Started  to  my  feet  in  terror,  for  my  Dream's 

phantasmal  Error 
Painted  in  the  fitful  fire,  a  frightful,  fiend- 
ish flaming  face ! 

On  the  red  hearth's  reddest   centre,  from  a 

blazing  knot  of  oak, 
Seemed  to  gibe  and  grin  this  riiantoni  when 

in  terror  I  awoke, 
And  my  slumberous  eyelids    straining  as  I 

staggered  to  the  floor, 
Still  in  that  dread  Vision  seeming,  turned  my 

gaze  toward  the  gleaming 
Hearth,  and — there  ! — oh,  God  !  I  saw  It ! 

and  from  out  Its  flaming  jaw  It 
Spat  a  ceaseless,  seething,  hissing,  bubbling, 

gurgling  stream  of  gore  ! 

Speechless  ;  struck  with  stony  silence ;  fro- 
zen to  the  floor  I  stood, 

Till  methought  my  brain  was  hissing  with 
that  hissing,  bubbling  blood  : — 

Till  I  felt  my  life-stream  oozing,  oozing  from 
those  lambent  lips  : — 

Till  the  Demon  seemed  to  name  me  : — then 
a  wondrous  calm  o'ercame  me. 

And  my  brow  grew  cold  and  dewy,  with  a 
death-damp  stiff  and  gluey. 

And  I  fell  back  on  my  pillow  in  apparent 
soul-eclipse ! 

Then,  as  in  Death's  seeming  shadow,  in  the 
icy  Pall  of  Fear 

I  lay  stricken,  came  a  hoarse  and  hideous 
murmur  to  my  ear  : — 

Canf  a  murmur  like  the  murmur  of  assas- 
sins in  their  sleep  : — 

Muttering,  "  Higher  !  higher  !  higher  !  I  am 
Demon  of  the  Fire  ! 

I  am  Arch-Fiend  of  the  Fire!  and  each 
blazing  roofs  my  pyre. 

And  my  sweetest  incense  is  the  blood  and 
t'Oars  my  victims  weep  > 


How  I  revel  on  the  Prairie !  IIow  I   roar 

r.mong  the  Pines ! 
How  I  laugh  when  from  the  village  o'er  the 

snow  the  red  flame  shines. 
And  I  hear  the  shrieks  of  terror,  with  a  Lifo 

in  every  breath ! 
How  I  scream  with  lambent  laughter  as  1 

hurl  each  crackling  rafter 
Down  the  fell  abyss  of  Fire,  until  higher  I 

higher !  higher ! 
Leap  the  High-Priests  of  my  Altar  in  their 

merry  Dance  of  Death  ! 

"  I  am  Monarch  of  the  Fire!  I  am  Vassal- 
King  of  Death  ! 

World-encircling,  with  the  shadow  of  its 
Doom  upon  my  breath  ! 

With  the  symbol  of  Hereafter  flaming  from 
my  fatal  face ! 

I  command  the  Eternal  Fire!  Higher! 
higher !  higher !  higher ! 

Leap  my  ministering  Demons,  like  Phantas- 
magoric lemans 

Hugging  Universal  Nature  in  their  hideous 
embrace !" 

Then  a  sombre  silence  shut  me  in  a  solemn, 
shrouded  sleep. 

And  I  slumbered,  like  an  infant  in  the  "  Cra- 
dle of  the  Deep," 

Till  the  Belfry  in  the  Forest  quivered  with 
the  matin  stroke. 

And  the  martins,  from  the  edges  of  its  lichen- 
lidded  ledges. 

Shimmered  through  the  russet  arches  where 
the  Light  in  torn  files  marches. 

Like  a  routed  army  struggling  through  the 
serried  ranks  of  oak. 

Through  my  ivy-fretted  casement  filtered  in 
a  tremulous  note 

From  the  tall  and  stately  linden  where  a  Ro- 
bin swelled  his  throat : — 

Querulous,  quaker-crested  Robin,  calling 
quaintly  for  his  mate  ! 

Then  I  started  up,  unbidden,  from  my  slum- 
ber Nightmare  ridden. 

With  the  memory  of  that  Due  Demon  in  my 
central  Fire, 

Ou  mv  eve's  interior  mirror  like  the  shadow 
oi  a  Fate  i 


162 


RETRIBUTION. 


Ah !  the  fiendish  Fire  had  smouldered  to  a 

white  and  formless  heap, 
And  no  knot  of  oak  was  flaming  as  it  flamed 

upon  my  sleep ; 
But  around  its  very  centre,  where  the  Demon 

Face  had  shone, 


Forked  Shadows  seemed  to  linger,  pomtins 

as  with  spectral  finger 
To  a  Bible,  massive,  golden,  on  a  table  carv 

ed  and  olden — 
And  I  bowed,  and  said,  "All  Power  is  ol 

God,  of  God  alone!" 


RETRIBUTTON. 


A.  LINCOLN. 


Wj  Almighty  has  His  own  ) m rj )o,sf's.  "  Woe  unto  tlic  world  b«cnuae 
of  r)froiK;cs !  for  it  must  ueods  l»c  that  ofTonccs  come;  hut  woo  to 
that  man  by  whom  the  offence  cometh."  If  W(^  shall  suppose  that 
American  slavery  is  one  of  tliose  offences  which,  in  the  providence 
of  God,  muKit  needs  come,  hut  which,  having  continual  through 
Ilis  appointed  tim<\  He  now  wills  to  rcinov,  and  that  II<'  gives  to 


JENKINS  GOES  TO  A  PICNIC.  163 

both  North  and  South  this  terrible  war,  as  the  woe  due  to  those  by  whom 
the  offence  came,  shall  we  discern  therein  any  departure  from  those  divine 
attributes  which  the  believers  in  a  living  God  always  ascribe  to  Him  ! 
Fondly  do  we  hope,  fervently  do  we  pray,  that  this  mighty  scourge  of 
war  may  speedily  pass  away.  Yet,  if  God  wills  that  it  continue  until 
all  the  wealth  piled  by  the  bondman's  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  d 
unrequited  toil  shall  be  sunk,  and  until  every  drop  of  blood  drawn  with 
the  lash  shall  be  paid  by  another  drawn  with  the  sword,  as  was  said  three 
thousand  years  ago,  so  still  it  must  be  said,  "  The  judgments  of  the  Lord 
are  true  and  ricrhteous  altoo;ether." 

With  malice  toward  none ;  with  charity  for  all ;  with  firmness  in  the 
right,  as  God  gives  us  to  see  the  right,  let  us  strive  on  to  finish  the  work 
we  are  in ;  to  bind  up  the  nation's  wounds ;  to  care  for  him  who  shall 
have  borne  the  battle,  and  for  his  widow,  and  his  orphan — to  do  all  which 
may  achieve  and  cherish  a  just  and  a  lasting  peace  among  ourselves,  and 
with  all  nations. 


JENKINS  GOES  TO  A  PICNIC. 


'IfAE.IA  ANN  recently  determined  to  go  to  a  picnic. 

Maria  Ann  is  my  wife — unfortunately  she  had  planned  it  to 

t^^     go  alone,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  on  that   picnic   excursion ; 
but  when  I  heard  about  it,  I  determined  to  assist. 
She  pretended  she  was  very  glad ;  I  don't  believe  she  was. 

"  It  will  do  you  good  to  get  away  from  your  work  a  day,  poor  fellow," 
she  said ;  "  and  we  shall  so  much  enjoy  a  cool  morning  ride  on  the  cars,  and 
a  dinner  in  the  woods." 

On  the  morning  of  that  day,  Maria  Ann  got  up  at  five  o'clock.  About 
three  minutes  later  she  disturbed  my  slumbers,  and  told  me  to  come  to 
breakfast.  I  told  her  I  wasn't  hungry,  but  it  didn't  make  a  bit  of  differ- 
ence, I  had  to  get  up.  The  sun  was  up ;  I  had  no  idea  that  the  sun  began 
business  so  early  in  the  morning,  but  there  he  was. 

"  Now,"  said  Maria  Ann,"  "  we  must  fly  around,  for  the  cars  start  at 
half-past  six.  Eat  all  the  breakfast  you  can,  for  you  won't  get  anything 
more  before  noon." 

I  could  not  eat  anything  so  early  in  the  morning.  There  was  ice  to 
be  pounded  to  go  around  the  pail  of  ice-cream,  and  the  sandwiches  to  be 
cut,  and  I  thought  I  would  never  get  the  legs  of  the  chicken  fixed  so  that 
I   could  get  the  cover  on  the  big  basket.     Maria  Ann  flew  around  and 


164  JENKINS  GOES  TO  A  PICNIC. 

piled  up  groceries  for  me  to  pack,  giving  directions  to  the  girl  about 
taking  care  of  the  house,  and  putting  on  her  di'ess  all  at  once.  There  is  a 
deal  of  energy  in  that  woman,  perhaps  a  trifle  too  much. 

At  twenty  minutes  pa.st  six  I  stood  on  the  front  steps,  with  a  basket 
on  one  arm  and  Maria  Ann's  waterproof  on  the  other,  and  a  pail  in  each 
hand,  and  a  bottle  of  vinegar  in  my  coat-skirt  pocket.  There  was  a  camp- 
chair  hung  on  me  somewhere,  too,  but  I  forget  just  where. 

"  Now,"  said  Maria  Ann,  "  we  must  run  or  we  shall  not  catch  the 
train." 

"  Maria  Ann,"  said  I,  "  that  is  a  reasonable  idea.  How  do  you 
suppose  I  can  run  with  all  this  freight?" 

"  You  must,  you  brute.  You  always  try  to  tease  me.  If  you  don't 
want  a  scene  on  the  street,  you  will  start,  too.'' 

So  I  ran. 

I  had  one  comfort,  at  legist.  ]\Iaria  Ann  fell  down  and  broke  her  para- 
sol. She  called  me  a  brute  again  because  I  laughed.  She  drove  me  all 
the  way  to  the  depot  at  a  brisk  trot,  and  we  got  on  the  cars ;  but  neither 
of  us  could  get  a  seat,  and  I  could  not  find  a  place  where  I  could  set  the 
things  down,  so  I  stood  there  and  held  them. 

"  Maria,"  I  said,  "  how  is  this  for  a  cool  morning  ride  ?  " 

Said  she,  "  You  are  a  brute,  Jenkins." 

Said  I,  "  You  have  made  that  observation  before,  my  love." 

I  kept  my  courage  up,  yet  I  knew  there  would  be  an  hour  of  wrath 
when  we  got  home.  "While  we  were  getting  out  of  the  cars,  the  bottle  in 
ray  coat-pocket  broke,  and  consequently  I  had  one  boot  half-full  of  vinegar 
all  day.  That  kept  me  pretty  quiet,  and  Maria  Ann  ran  off  with  a  big 
whiskered  music-teacher,  and  lost  her  fan,  and  got  her  feet  wet,  and 
tore  her  dress,  and  enjoyed  herself  so  much,  after  the  fashion  of  picnic 
goers. 

I  thought  it  would  never  come  dinner-time,  and  Maria  Ann  called  lue 
a  pig  because  I  wanted  to  open  our  b;iskct  before  the  rest  of  the  ba.skots 
were  o])onod. 

At  last  dinner  camo — the  "nice  dinii'T  in  the  woods,"  you  kixiw. 
Over  three  thousand  little  red  ants  ha<l  got  into  our  dinner,  and  tlicy 
were  worse  to  pick  out  than  fish-bones.  The  ice-cream  had  melted,  and 
there  was  no  vinegar  for  the  cold  meat,  except  what  was  in  my  boot,  ;ind 
of  course  that  wa.s  of  no  immediate  use.  The  music- teacher  spilled  a 
cup  of  hot  coffee  on  Maria  Ann's  head,  and  pulled  all  the  I'rizzles  out 
trying  to  wipe  off  the  coffee  with  his  handkerchief.  Then  I  sat  on  a  piece 
of  niapberry-pie,  and  .spoiled  my  white  pants,  iuid  concluded  I  iliiln't  M'ant 


THE  LITTLE  CONQUEROR. 


165 


any  tiling  more.  I  had  to  stand  up  against  a  tree  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon. The  day  offered  considerable  variety,  compared  to  every-day  life, 
but  there  were  so  many  drawbacks  that  I  did  not  enjoy  it  so  much  as  J 
might  have  done. 


THE  LITTLE  CONQUEROR. 


CHARLES   F.   ADAMS. 


m|^\VAS  midnight ;  not  a  sound  was  heard ; 
^P  Within  the  — "  Papa !  won't  'ou  'ook 
•g^W,   An'  see  my  pooty  'ittle  house  ? 

I  wis'  'ou  wouldn't  wead  'ou  book  " — 


'  Within  the  palace,  where  the  king 
Upon  his  couch  in  anguish  lay  " — 
"Papa!  Pa-pa.'  I  wis'  'ou'd  tum 
An'  have  a  'ittle  tonty  play — " 


'  No  gentle  hand  was  there  to  bring 

The  cooling  draft,  or  bathe  his  brow; 
His  courtiers,  and  his  pages  gone" — 
"  Tum,  papa,  tum ;  I  want  'ou  now —  " 

Down  goes  the  book  with  needless  force, 
And,  with  expression  far  from  mild, 

With  sullen  air,  and  clouded  brow, 
I  seat  myself  beside  the  child. 


166 


PLEDGE  WITH  WINE. 


Eer  little,  trusting  eyes  of  blue 

With  mute  surprise  gaze  in  my  face, 

As  if,  in  its  expression,  stern, 

Reproof,  and  censure,  she  could  trace 

Anon  her  little  bosom  heaves, 
Her  rosy  lip  begins  to  ciu-1 ; 


And,  with  a  quiv'ring  chin,  she  sobs ; 
"Papa  don't  'uv  his  'ittle  dirl!" 

King,  palace,  book — all  are  forgot ; 

My  arms  are  'round  my  darling  thrown- 
The  thunder  cloud  has  burt^t,  and,  lo ! 

Tears  fall  and  mingle  with  her  own. 


PLEDGE  ^YITII  WINE. 


i^LEDGE  with  wine — pledge  with   wine  !  "    cried  the   young  and 

%     thoughtless  Harry  Wood.    "  Pledge  with  wine,"  ran  through  the 

brilliant  crowd. 

eL'  The  beautiful  bride  grew  pale— the  decisive  hour  had  come, 

— she  pressed  her  white  hands  together,  and  the  leaves  of  her  bridal 

wreath  trembled  on  her  pure  brow;  ber  breath  came  quicker,  her 

heart  beat  wilder.     From  her  childhood  she  had    been    most  solemnly 

opposed  to  the  use  of  all  wines  and  liquors. 

"  Yes,  Marion,  lay  aside  your  scruples  for  this  once,"  said  the  Judge, 
in  a  low  tone,  going  towards  his  daughter,  "  the  company  expect  it,  do  not 
BO  seriously  infringe  upon  the  rules  of  etiquette ; — in  your  own  house  act 
as  you  please ;  but  in  mine,  for  this  once  please  me." 

Every  eye  was  turned  towards  the  bridal  pair.  Marion's  principles 
were  well  known.  Henry  had  been  a  convivialist,  but  of  late  his  friends 
noticed  the  change  in  his  manners,  the  difference  in  his  habits— and  to- 
night they  watched  him  to  see,  as  they  sneeringly  said,  if  ho  wa.s  tied  down 
to  a  woman's  opinion  so  soon. 

Pouring  a  brimming  linker,  they  held  it  with  tempting  smiles  towards 
Marion.  She  was  very  pale,  though  more  composed,  and  lier  li;in«l  .shook 
not,  as  smiling  back,  she  gratefully  accepted  the  crystal  tempter  and  raised 
it  to  her  lips.  But  scarcely  had  she  done  so,  when  every  hand  was  arrested 
by  her  piercing  exclamation  of  "  Oh,  how  terrible  !  "  "  What  is  it  ?  "  cried 
one  and  all,  thronging  together,  for  she  had  slowly  carried  the  glass  at 
arm's  length,  and  was  fixedly  regarding  it  as  though  it  were  some  hideous 

object. 

"  Wait,"  she  answered,  while  an  inspired  light  Mlionn  from  Ikt  dark 
eyes,  "  wait  and  I  will  tdl  you.  I  sec,"  she  added,  slowly  pointing  one 
jewelled  finger  at  the  sparkling  ruby  licjuid,  "a  sight  that  beggai's  all  de- 
scription ;  and  yet  listen ;  I  will  paint  it  for  you  if  I  can  :    It  is  a  lonely 


PLEDGE  WITH  WINE.  IQ^ 


spot;  tall  mountains,  crowned  with  verdure,  rise  in  awful  sul>limity  around; 
a  river  runs  through,  and  bright  flowers  grow  to  the  water's  edge.  There 
is  a  thick,  warm  mist  that  the  sun  seeks  vainly  to  pierce ;  trees,  lofty  and 
beautiful,  wave  to  the  airy  motion  of  the  birds ;  but  there,  a  group  of 
Indians  gather;  they  flit  to  and  fro  with  something  like  sorrow  upon  their 
dark  brow;  and  in  their  midst  lies  a  manly  form,  but  his  cheek,  how 
deathly;  his  eye  wild  with  the  fitful  fire  of  fever.  One  friend  stands  beside 
him,  nay,  I  should  say  kneels,  for  he  is  pillowing  that  poor  head  upon  hia 
breast. 

"  Genius  in  ruins.  Oh  !  the  high,  holy-looking  brow  !  "Why  should 
death  mark  it,  and  he  so  young?  Look  how  he  throws  the  damp  curls!  see 
him  clasp  his  hands !  hear  his  thrilling  shrieks  for  life  !  mark  how  he 
clutches  at  the  form  of  his  companion,  imploring  to  be  saved.  Oh  !  hear 
him  call  piteously  his  father's  name ;  see  him  twine  his  fingers  together  as 
he  shrieks  for  his  sister — his  only  sister — the  twin  of  his  soul — weeping  for 
him  in  his  distant  native  land. 

"  See !  "  she  exclaimed,  while  the  bridal  party  shrank  back,  the  un- 
tasted  wine  trembling  in  their  faltering  grasp,  and  the  Judge  fell,  over- 
powered, upon  his  seat ;  "  see !  his  arms  are  lifted  to  heaven ;  he  prays, 
how  wildly,  for  mercy !  hot  fever  rushes  through  his  veins.  The  friend 
beside  him  is  weeping ;  awe-stricken,  the  dark  men  move  silently,  and 
leave  the  living  and  dying  together." 

There  was  a  hush  in  that  princely  parlor,  broken  only  by  what  seemed 
a  smothered  sob,  from  some  manly  bosom.  The  bride  stood  yet  upright, 
with  quivering  lip,  and  tears  stealing  to  the  outward  edge  of  her  lashes. 
Her  beautiful  arm  had  lost  its  tension,  and  the  glass,  with  its  little  troubled 
red  waves,  came  slowly  towards  the  range  of  her  vision.  She  spoke  again; 
every  lip  was  mute.  Her  voice  was  low,  faint,  yet  awfully  distinct:  she 
still  fixed  her  sorrowful  glance  upon  the  wine-cup. 

"  It  is  evening  now ;  the  great  white  moon  is  coming  up,  and  her 
beams  lay  gently  on  his  forehead.  He  moves  not;  his  eyes  are  set  in  their 
sockets ;  dim  are  their  piercing  glances ;  in  vain  his  friend  whispers  the 
name  of  father  and  sister — death  is  there.  Death !  and  no  soft  hand,  no 
gentle  voice  to  bless  and  soothe  him.  His  head  sinks  back !  one  convulsive 
shudder !  he  is  dead !  " 

A  groan  ran  through  the  assembly,  so  vivid  was  her  description,  so 
unearthly  her  look,  so  inspired  her  manner,  that  what  she  described  seemed 
actually  to  have  taken  place  then  and  there.  They  noticed  also,  that  the 
bridegroom  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  and  was  weeping. 

"Dead!  "  she  repeated  again,  her  lips  quivering  faster  and  faster,  and 


168 


PAPA'S  LETTER. 


her  voice  more  and  more  broken :  "  and  there  they  scoop  him  a  grave ;  and 
there  without  a  shroud,  they  lay  him  down  in  the  damp  reeking  earth. 
The  only  son  of  a  proud  father,  the  only  idolized  brother  of  a  fond  sister. 
And  he  sleeps  to-day  in  that  distant  country,  with  no  stone  to  mark  the 
spot.  There  he  Hes — my  father's  son — my  own  twin  brother  !  a  victim  to 
this  deadly  poison."  "  Father,"  she  exclaimed,  turning  suddenly,  while  the 
tears  rained  down  her  beautiful  cheeks,  "  father,  shall  I  drink  it  now  ?  " 

The  form  of  the  old  Judge  was  convulsed  with  agony.  He  raised  his 
head,  but  in  a  smothered  voice  he  faltered — "  No,  no,  my  child,  in  God'a 
name  no." 

She  lifted  the  gHttering  goblet,  and  letting  it  suddenly  fall  to  the  floor 
it  was  dashed  into  a  thousand  pieces.  Many  a  tearful  eye  watched  her 
movements,  and  instantaneously  every  wine-glass  was  transferred  to  the 
marble  table  on  which  it  had  been  prepared.  Then,  as  she  looked  at  the 
fragments  of  crystal,  she  turned  to  the  company,  saying: — "Let  no  friend, 
hereafter,  who  loves  me,  tempt  me  to  peril  my  soul  for  wine.  Not  firmer 
the  everlasting  hills  than  my  resolve,  God  helping  me,  never  to  touch  or 
taste  that  terrible  poison.  And  he  to  whom  I  have  given  my  hand ;  who 
watched  over  my  brother's  dying  form  in  that  last  solemn  hour,  and  buried 
the  dear  wanderer  there  by  the  river  in  that  land  of  gold,  will,  I  trust, 
sustain  me  in  that  resolve.     Will  you  not,  my  husband  ?  " 

His  glistening  eyes,  his  sad,  sweet  smile  was  her  answer. 

The  Judge  left  the  room,  and  when  an  hour  later  he  returned,  and 
with  a  more  subdued  manner  took  part  in  the  entertainment  of  the  bridal 
guasts,  no  one  could  fail  to  read  that  he,  too,  had  determined  to  dash  the 
enemy  at  once  and  forever  from  his  princely  rooms. 

Those  who  were  present  at  that  wedding,  can  never  forget  the  impres- 
sion so  solemnly  made.     Many  from  that  hour  forswore  the  social  glass. 


FAPA'S  LETTER. 


WAS  Hitting  in  my  Htnrly, 

Writing  letters,  when  I  licanl, 
rii:;i8o,  dear  rnurnina,,  Mary  told  me 
Mamma  rnuHtn't  bo  'iHturbcd. 

"  But  IVf)  tired  of  tlie  kitty, 
Want  Home  ozzcr  fing  to  do. 

Witing  lf!tt<^!rH,  in  'ou,  mamma? 
Tan't  I  wit<j  a  letter  too  ?" 


"  Not  now,  darling,  mamma'H  busy; 

Run  and  jilay  with  kilty,  now." 
"  No,  no,  mamma;  mo  wile  letter, 

Tan  if 'ou  will  show  mo  how." 

I  Would  iiaiiit  my  darling's  portrait 
Ah  liirt  Hweot  oycs  Hcarrlici]  my  fac« 

Hair  of  gold  and  oycs  of  azure, 
Form  of  childi.sli,  witching  grace. 


SEWING  ON  A  BUTTON. 


I6y 


But  the  eager  face  was  clouded, 
As  I  slowly  shook  ray  head, 

Till  I  said,  "  I'll  make  a  letter 
Of  you,  darling  boy,  instead." 

So  I  parted  back  the  tresses 

From  his  forehead  high  and  white 

And  a  stamp  in  sport  I  pasted 
'Mid  its  waves  of  golden  light. 

Then  I  said,  "  Now,  little  letter. 
Go  away  and  bear  good  news." 

And  I  smiled  as  down  the  staircase 
Clattered  loud  the  little  shoes. 

Leaving  me,  the  darling  hurried 
Down  to  Mary  in  his  glee, 
'  Mamma's  witing  lots  of  letters ; 
I'se  a  letter,  Mary — see  !" 

No  one  heard  the  little  prattler, 
As  once  more  he  climbed  the  stair, 

Reached  his  little  cap  and  tippet, 
Standing  on  the  entry  stair. 

No  one  heard  the  front  door  open, 
No  one  saw  the  golden  hair. 

As  it  floated  o'er  his  shoulders 
In  the  crisp  October  air. 

Down  the  street  the  baby  hastened 
Till  he  reached  the  office  door. 
"  I'se  a  letter  Mr.  Postman  ; 
Is  there  room  for  any  more  ? 

"  'Cause  dis  letter's  doin'  to  papa, 
Papa  lives  with  God,  'ou  know, 


Mamma  sent  mo  for  a  letter, 
Does  'ou  fink  'at  I  tan  go  ?" 

But  the  clerk  in  wonder  answered, 
"  Not  to-day,  my  little  man," 
"  Den  I'll  find  anozzer  office, 
'Cause  I  must  do  if  I  tan." 

Fain  the  clerk  would  have  detained  lum 
But  the  pleading  face  was  gone, 

And  the  little  feet  were  hastening — 
By  the  busy  crowd  swept  on. 

Suddenly  the  crowd  was  parted, 
People  fled  to  left  and  right. 

As  a  pair  of  maddened  horses 
At  the  moment  dashed  in  sight. 

No  one  saw  the  baby  figure — 
No  one  saw  the  golden  hair. 

Till  a  voice  of  frightened  sweetness 
Rang  out  on  the  autumn  air. 

'Twas  too  late — a  moment  only 
Stood  the  beauteous  vision  there, 

Then  the  little  face  lay  lifeless. 
Covered  o'er  with  golden  hair. 

Reverently  they  raised  my  darling, 
Brushed  away  the  curls  of  gold, 

Saw  the  stamp  upon  the  forehead. 
Growing  now  so  icy  cold. 

Not  a  mark  the  face  disfigured, 
Showing  where  a  hoof  had  trod  ; 

Bui:  the  little  life  was  ended — 
"  Papa's  letter  "  was  with  God. 


SEWING  ON  A  BUTTON. 


J.  M.  BAILEY. 


sT  11-  bad  enough  to  see  a  bachelor  sew  on  a  button,  but  ho  is  the 
embodiment  of  grace  alongside  of  a  married  man.  Necessity  has 
compelled  experience  in  the  case  of  the  former,  but  the  latter  has 
I  always  depended  upon  some  one  else  for  this  service,  and  fortunately, 
for  the  sake  of  society,  it  is  rarely  he  is  obliged  to  resort  to  the  needle 
himself.     Sometimes  the  patient  wife  scalds  her  right  hand,  or  runs  e 


170  LIFE  FROM  DEATH. 


sliver  under  the  nail  of  the  index  finger  of  that  hand,  and  it  is  then  the 
man  clutches  the  needle  around  the  neck,  and  forgetting  to  tie  a  knot  in 
the  thread  commences  to  put  on  the  button.  It  is  always  in  the  morning, 
and  from  five  to  twenty  minutes  after  he  is  expected  to  be  down  street. 
He  lays  the  button  exactly  on  the  site  of  its  predecessor,  and  pushes  the 
needle  through  one  eye,  and  carefully  draws  the  thread  after,  leaving 
about  three  inches  of  it  sticking  up  for  leeway.  He  says  to  himself, — 
•'  Well,  if  women  don't  have  the  easiest  time  I  ever  see."  Then  he  comes 
back  the  other  way,  and  gets  the  needle  through  the  cloth  well  enough, 
and  lays  himself  out  to  find  the  eye,  but  in  spite  of  a  great  deal  of  patient 
jabbing,  the  needle  point  persists  in  bucking  against  the  solid  parts  of 
that  button,  and  finally,  when  he  loses  patience,  his  fingers  catch  the 
thread,  and  that  three  inches  he  had  left  to  hold  the  button  slips  through 
the  eye  in  a  twinkling,  and  the  button  rolls  leisurely  across  the  floor. 
He  picks  it  up  without  a  single  remark,  out  of  respect  to  his  children, 
and  makes  another  attempt  to  fasten  it.  This  time  when  coming  back 
with  the  needle  he  keeps  both  the  thread  and  button  from  slipping  by 
covering  them  with  his  thumb,  and  it  is  out  of  regard  for  that  part  of 
him  that  he  feels  around  for  the  eye  in  a  very  careful  and  judicious 
manner ;  but  eventually  losing  his  philosophy  as  the  search  becomes  more 
and  more  hopeless,  he  falls  to  jabbing  about  in  a  loose  and  savage  manner, 
and  it  is  just  then  the  needle  finds  the  opening,  and  comes  up  through 
the  button  and  part  way  through  his  thumb  with  a  celerity  that  no 
human  ingenuity  can  guard  against.  Then  he  lays  down  the  things,  with 
a  few  familiar  quotations,  and  presses  the  injured  hand  between  his  knees, 
and  then  holds  it  under  the  other  arm,  and  finally  jams  it  into  his  mouth, 
and  all  the  while  he  prances  about  the  floor,  and  calls  upon  heaven  and 
earth  to  witness  that  there  has  never  been  anything  like  it  since  the 
world  wa.s  created,  and  howls,  and  whistles,  and  moans,  and  sobs.  After 
awhile,  he  calms  down,  and  puts  on  his  pants,  and  fastens  them  together 
with  a  stick,  and  goes  to  his  business  a  changed  man. 


LIFE  FROM  DEATH. 


HORATIUS    BONAR. 


HCTiSBl  I E  Htar  is  not  oxtinguifihed  when  it  aota 
WM^.     Ti[>on  tho  fliill  horizon  ;  it  V>ut  goofl 
I'ij^afc^ToHhino  in  othor  nkioH.lhnn  rcappfMir 
In   ourH,   aa  fresh    a«  when  it  firHt 


The  river  is  not  lost,  when,  o'er  tho  rock, 
It  pours  its  flood  into  tho  abyss  bolow , 
Its   Hcattorcd    force    rc-gathoring   from    th« 

HllDck, 

It  haatena  ouward  with  vet  fuller  flow. 


BETTY  AND  THE  BEAR. 


Z71 


The  bright  sun  dies  not,  when  the  shading 
orb 

Of  the  eclipsing  moon  obscures  its  ray 
It  still  is  shining  on  ;  and  soon  to  us 

Will  burst  undimmed  into  the  joy  of  day. 

The  lily  dies  not,  when  both  flower  and  leaf 
Fade,  and  are  strewed  upon  the  chill,  sad 
ground ; 
Gone  down  for  shelter  to  its  mother-earth, 
'Twill  rise,  re-bloom,  and  shed  its  fragrance 
round. 

The  dew-drop  dies  not,  when  it  leaves  the 
flower, 

And  passes  upward  on  the  beam  of  morn ; 
It  does  but  hide  itself  in  light  on  high. 

To  its  loved  flower  at  twilight,  to  return. 


The   fine  gold   has  not   perished,  when  the 
flame 
Seizes  upon  it  with  consuming  glow  ; 
In  freshened  splendor  it  comes  forth  anew. 
To  sparkle   on   the   monarch's   throne  oi 
brow. 

Thus  in  the  quiet  joy  of  kindly  trust, 
We  bid  each  parting  saint  a  brief  fare- 
well; 

Weeping,  yet  smiling,  we  commit  their  dust 
To  the  safe  keeping  of  the  silent  cell. 

The  day  of  re-appearing  I  how  it  speeds  ! 

He  who  is  true  and  faithful  speaks  the 
word. 
Then  shall  we  ever  be  with  those  we  love — 

Then  shall  we  be  forever  with  the  Lord. 


BETTY  AND  THE  BEAR. 


j)N  a  pioneer's  cabin  out  West,  so  they  say,  f 
5     A  great  big  black  grizzly  trotted  one 
I         day, 
)      And  seated  himself  on  the  hearth,  and 

began 
To  lap  the  contents  of  a  two-gallon 

pan 


Of  milk  and  potatoes, — an  excellent  meal,— 
And  then  looked  about  to  see  what  he  coulJ 
steal. 


The  lord  of  the  mansion  awoke  from  his  sleep, 
And,  hearing  a  racket,  he  ventured  to  peep 
Just  out  in  the  kitchen,  to  see  what  was  there, 
And  was  scared  to  behold  a  great  grizzly 
bear. 

So  he  screamed  in  alarm  to  his  slumbering 

frow, 
"  Thar's  a  bar  in  the  kitching  as  big's  a  cow  !" 
"  A  what  ?"     "  Why  a  bar  !"  "  Well,  murder 

him,  then !" 
"  Yes,  Betty,  I  will,  if  you'll  first  venture  in.'" 
So  Betty  leaped  up,  and  the  poker  she  seized. 
While  her  man  shut  the  door,  and  against  it 

he  squeezed. 

As  Betty  then  laid  on  the  grizzly  her  blows, 
Now  on  his  forehead,  and  now  on  his  nose, 
Her  man  through  the  key-hole  kept  shouting 

within, 
"  Well  done,  my  brave  Betty,  now  hit  him 

agm. 
Now  a  rap  on  the  ribs,  now  a  knock  on  the 

snout. 
Now  poke  with  the  poker,  and  poke  his  eyes 

out." 
So,   with  rapping  and  poking,  poor  Betty 

alone, 
Ai  laet  laid  Sir  Bruin  as  dead  as  a  stone. 


172 


THE  FREEDOM  OF  THE  PRESS. 


Now  •ft-hen  the  old  man  saw  the  bear  was  nc 

more, 
He  ventured  to  poke   his   nose  out   of  the 

door, 
And  there  was  the  grizzly,  stretched  on  the 

floor. 
Then  off  to  the  neighbors  he  hastened,  to 

tell 
All  the  wonderful  things  that  that  morning 

befell ; 
And    he    published    the    marvellous    story 

afar. 
How  "me  and  my  Betty  jist  slaughtered  a 

bar! 
0  yes,   come  and  see,  all  the  neighbors  hev 

sid  it. 
Come  see  what  we  did,  me  and  Betty,  we 

did  it." 


THE  FREEDOM  OF  THE  PRESS. 


JOHN   MILTON. 


-'7E,DS  and  Commons  of  England  !  consider  what  nation  it  is  wheroof 
ye  are,  and  whereof  ye  are  the  governors;  a  nation  not  slow  and 
dull,  but  of  a  quick,  ingenious,  and  piercing  spirit ;  acute  to  invent, 
subtile  and  sinewy  to  discourse,  not  beneath  the  reach  of  any 
point  that  human  capacity  can  soar  to. 

Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation  rousing 
herself  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks ; 
methinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle  mewing  her  mighty  youth,  and  kindling 
her  undazzlcd  eyes  at  the  full  mid-day  beam  ;  purging  and  unsealing  lior 
long-abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself  of  heavenly  radiance;  while  the 
whole  noise  of  timorous  and  flocking  birds,  with  those  also  that  love  the 
twilight,  flutter  about,  amazed  at  what  she  means. 

Though  all  the  winds  of  doctrine  were  let  loose  to  play  upc  i  the 
earth,  so  Trutli  bo  in  the  field,  we  do  injuriously,  by  licensing  and  pro- 
hibiting, to  misdoubt  her  strength.  Lot  her  and  falsehood  grapple ; 
whoever  know  Truth  put  to  the  worse  in  a  free  and  open  encounter? 
Her  confuting  is  the  best  and  surest  suppressing.  He  who  hears  what 
praying  there  is  for  light  and  clear  knowledge  to  bo  sent  down  among  us, 
would  think  of  other  matters  to  be  constituted  beyond  the  disci])linc  of 


AULD  ROBIN  GRAY.  173 


Geneva,  framed  and  fabricked  already  to  our  hands.  Yet  when  the  new 
light  which  we  beg  for  shines  in  upon  us,  there  be  who  envy  and  oppose, 
if  it  come  not  first  in  at  their  casements.  What  a  collusion  is  this,  when  as 
we  are  exhorted  by  the  wise  men  to  use  diligence,  "to  seek  for  wisdom  as 
for  hidden  treasures,"  early  and  late,  that  another  order  shall  enjoin  us  to 
know  nothing  but  by  statute!  When  a  man  hath  been  laboring  the 
hardest  labor  in  the  deep  mines  of  knowledge,  hath  furnished  out  his 
findings  in  all  their  equipage,  drawn  forth  his  reasons,  as  it  were  a  battle 
ranged,  scattered  and  defeated  all  objections  in  his  way,  calls  out  his 
adversary  into  the  plain,  offers  him  the  advantage  of  wind  and  sun,  if  he 
please,  only  that  he  may  try  the  matter  by  dint  of  argument;  for  his 
opponents  then  to  skulk,  to  lay  ambushments,  to  keep  a  narrow  bridge  of 
licensing  where  the  challenger  should  pass,  though  it  be  valor  enough  in 
soldiership,  is  but  weakness  and  cowardice  in  the  wars  of  Truth.  For 
who  knows  not  that  Truth  is  strong,  next  to  the  Almighty?  She  needs 
no  policies,  nor  stratagems,  nor  licensings,  to  make  her  victorious;  those 
are  the  shifts  and  the  defences  that  error  uses  against  her  power ;  give  her 
but  room,  and  do  not  bind  her  when  she  sleeps. 


AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 


ANNE    BARNARD. 


Lady  Anne  Barnard,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Balcarre-s,  was  born  in  1750.  Robin  Gray  chanced  to 
be  the  name  of  a  shepherd  at  Balcarres.  While  she  was  writing  tliis  ballad,  a  little  sister  looked  in  on 
her.  "  What  more  shall  I  do,"  .\nne  asked,  "  to  trou>)le  a  poor  girl  ?  I've  sent  lier  Jamie  to  sea,  brokea 
her  father's  arm,  made  her  mother  ill,  and  given  her  an  old  man  for  a  lover.  There's  room  in  the  fouf 
lines  for  one  sorrow  more.  What  shall  it  be?"  "Steal  the  cow,  sister  Anne."  Accordingly  the  cow 
was  stolen. 

The  second  part,  it  is  said,  wa.s  written  to  please  her  mother,  who  often  asked  "how  that  unSuckJ 
business  of  Jeanie  and  Jamie  ended." 

FIRST   PART. 
^^gjig^i .  .  

But  saving  a  crown   be   bad  naetbing  el»e 

beside ; 
To  mak  tbe  crown  a  pound  my  Jamie  gae<l 

to  sea, 
And  the  crown  and  tbe  pound — tbey  were 

baitb  for  me. 

He  hadna  been  gane  a  twelvemonth  and  a 

day 
^Tien  my  father  brake  his  arm,  and  tbe  cow 

was  stown  away ; 


^Wry^fTEN   tbe   sheep   are  in  tbe  fauld, 
when  tbe  kye's  a'  at  bame. 
And  a'  tbe  weary  warld  to  rest  are 
^1^'         gane, 
Y        The  woes  0'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers 
i*  frae  my  e'e, 

T         Unkent  by  my  gudeman,  wha  sleeps 
sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  sought  me 
for  his  bride, 
12 


174 


AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 


My  mother  she  fell  sick — my  Jamie  was  at 

sea, — 
Ajid  auld  Robin  Gray  came  a-courting  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  my  mother  couldna 

spin, 
t  toiled   day  and   night,  but   their  bread  I 

couldna  win  ; 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and,  wi' 

tears  in  his  e'e, 
Said,  "  Jeanie,  for   their  sakes,  will  ye  no 

marry  me?" 

My  heart  it  said  na,  and  I  looked  for  Jamie 

back, 
But  hard  blew  the  winds,  and  his  ship  was  a 

wrack ; 
His   ship  was  a  wrack — why  didna   Jamie 

dee? 
Or  why  am  I  spared  to  cry,  Wae  is  me  ? 

My  father  urged  me  sair — my  mother  didna 

speak. 
But  she  lookit  in  mj'  face  till  my  heart  was 

like  to  break  ; 
They  gied  him  my  hand — my  heart  was  in 

the  sea — 
And  so  Robin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  his  wife  a  week  but  only  four, 
Wlien,  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on   the  stane  at  my 

door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  ghaist,  for  I  couldna  think 

it  he, 
Till  hf;  .'^aid,  "  I'm  come  hame,  love,  to  marry 

tiir-'-." 

Ob!  sair,  sair  did  wo  greet,  and   rnickle  say 

o'  a', 
I  gied  liim  ao  ki.«s  and  Itade  him  gang  awa'. 
I  wish   that  I  wiTO  dead,  but  I'm  no  like  to 

.le<-. 
For  tho'  my  heart   is   broken,  I'm  young — 

wae 's  me ! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin, 
I  darr-na  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  would  be  a 

sin, 
liut  I'll  do  my  boMt  a  gude  wife  to  bo, 
For  oil  !  Rubin  Gray  he  i.^  kind  to  rao. 


SECOND    PART. 

The  winter   was   come,    'twas    simmer    nat 

mair, 
And,  trembling,  the  leaves  were  fleeiug  thro' 

th'  air : 
"  0  winter,"  says  Jeanie,  "  we  kindly  agree, 
For  the  sun  he  looks  wae  when   he  shines 

upon  me." 

Nae  longer  she  mourned,  her  tears  were  a' 
spent, 

Despair  it  was  come,  and  she  thought  it  con- 
tent— 

She  thought  it  content,  but  her  cheek  it  grew 
pale, 

And  she  bent  like  a  lily  broke  down  by  the 
gale. 

Her  father  was  vexed  and  her  mother  was 

wae. 
But  pensive  and  silent  was  auld  Robin  Gray; 
He  wandered  his  lane,  ami  liis  face  it  grew 

lean, 
Like  the  side  of  a  brae  where  the  torrent  has 

been. 

He  took  to  his  bed — nae  physic  he  sought, 
But  ordered   his   friends   all   around   to   be 

brought ; 
While  Jeanie  supported  his  head  in  its  place, 
Her  tears  trickled  down,  and  they  fell  on  hi.< 

face. 

"  Oh,  greet  nae  mair,  Jeanie,"  said  he  wi'  a 

groan, 
"  I'm  no  worth  your  sorrow — the  truth  maun 

be  known  ; 
Send  round  for  your   neighbors,  my  hour  it 

draws  near, 
An.l   I've   that  to  tell  that  it's  fit  a'  .^iiould 

hear. 

"  I  lo'cd  ami  1  courti'd  her  iimny  :i  day, 
The  auld  folks  were  for  me,  but  still  she  said 

nay: 
I  kentna  o'  Jamie,  nor  yet  of  her  vow. 
In  mercy  forgive  me — 'twaf  I  stoli-  iho  covt 

"  I  cared  not  for  Crumini'',  I   tlmuLdit  lait  o' 

thee— 
I  thought  it  was  Crumn  io  stood  'Iwixt  you 

and  ine ; 


POETRY  AND  MYSTERY  OF  THE  SEA. 


175 


While  she  fed  your  parents,  oh,  did  you  not 

say 
You   never    would   marry   wi'  auld    Robin 

Gray? 

"  But  sickness  at  hame  and  want  at  the  door, 
You  gied  me  your  hand,  while  your  heart  it 

was  sore  ; 
I  saw  it  was  sore, — why  took  I  her  hand? 
Oh,  that  was  a  deed  to  my  shame  o'er  the 

land! 

"  How  truth  soon  or  late  comes  to  open  day- 
light! 

For  Jamie  cam'  back,  and  your  cheek  it  grew 
white — 

White,  white  grew  your  cheek,  but  aye  true 
unto  me — • 

&.y,  Jeanie,  I'm  thankfu' — I'm  thankfu'  to 
dee. 

"  Is  Jamie  come  here  yet  ?  " — and  Jamie  they 

saw — 
"  I've  injured  you  sair,  lad,   so  leave  you 

my  a' ; 


Be  kind  to  my  Jeanie,  and  soon  may  it  be ; 
Waste  nae  time,  my  dauties,  in  mourning  for 
me." 

They  kissed  his  cauld  hands,  and  a  smile  o  er 

his  face 
Seemed  hopefu'  of  being  accepted  by  grace ; 
"  Oh,  doubtna,"  said  Jamie,  "  forgi'en  he  will 

be— 
Wha  wouldna  be  tempted,  my  love,  to  win 

thee  ? " 
***** 
The  first  days  were  dowie  while  time  slipt 

awa', 
But  saddest  and  sairest  to  Jeanie  o'  a' 
Was    thinkin'   she   couldna  be   honest  and 

right, 
Wi'  tears  in  her  e'e  while  her  heart  was  sae 

light. 

But  nae  guile  had  she,  and  her  sorrow  away. 
The  wife  o'  her  Jamie,  the  tear  couldna  stay ; 
A  bonnie  wee  bairn — the  auld  folks  by  the 

fire — 
Oh,  now  she  has  a'  that  her  heart  can  desire. 


POETRY  AND  MYSTERY  OF  THE  SEA. 


%Al^h 


DR.  GREENWOOD. 


[IE  sea  is  liis,  and  He  made  it/'  cries  the  Psalmist  of  Israel,  in  one 
of  those  bursts  of  enthusiasm  in  which  he  so  often  expresses  tlie 
^,A.  -i,  whole  of  a  vast  subject  by  a  few  simple  words.  "Whose  else,  in- 
%  deed,  could  it  be,  and  by  whom  else  could  it  have  been  made? 

I  Who  else  can  heave  its  tides  and  appoint  its  bounds  ?  Who  else  can 
j  urge  its  mighty  waves  to  madness  with  the  breath  and  wings  of 
the  tempest,  and  then  speak  to  it  again  in  a  master's  accents  and 
bid  it  be  still  ?  Who  else  could  have  peopled  it  with  its  countless  inhabi- 
tants, and  caused  it  to  bring  forth  its  various  productions,  and  filled  it 
from  its  deepest  bed  to  its  expanded  surface,  filled  it  from  its  ceutre  to  its 
remotest  shores,  filled  it  to  the  brim  with  beauty  and  mystery  and  power  ? 
Majestic  Ocean!  Glorious  Sea!  No  created  being  rules  thee  or  made 
thee. 


POETRY  AND  MYSTEHF  OF  THE  SEA. 


What  is  there  more  i  .:..blinie  than  the  trackless,  desert,  all-surrounding, 
iufathomable  sea?  What  is  there  more  peacefully  sublime  than  the  calm, 
gently-heaving,  silent  sea?  What  is  there  more  terribly  sublime  than  ine 
angry,  dashing,  foaming  sea?  Power — resistless,  overwhelming  power  — 
h   its  attribute   and   its  expression,  whether   in    the   careless,  conscious 


\ 


"THE    GESTLY-HEAVixNtj    .SEA." 

^a/idpur  of  its  deep  rest,  or  the  wild  tumult  of  its  excited  wrath.  It  is 
awful  when  its  crested  waves  rise  up  to  make  a  compact  with  the  black 
clouds  and  the  howling  winds,  and  the  thunder  and  the  thunderbolt,  and 
thoy  sweep  on,  in  the  joy  of  their  dread  alliance,  to  do  the  Almighty's 
bidding.  And  it  is  awful,  too,  when  it  stretches  its  broad  level  out  to 
meet  in  quiet  union  the  ])ondod  sky,  and  show  in  the  line  of  meeting  the 
vast  rotundity  of  tlu;  world.  Tlu'ro  i.s  majesty  in  its  wide  expanse,  sepa- 
rating and  ono;losing  the  great  continents  of  the  earth,  occupying  two- 
thirds  of  the  whole  surfice  of  the  globe,  penetrating  the  land  with  its  bays 
and  secondary  seas,  and  receiving  the  constantly-pouring  tribute  of  every 
river,  of  evoiy  sliore.  There  is  majesty  in  its  fulness,  never  diminishing 
and  never  increasing.  Tlierc  is  majesty  in  its  integrity, — for  its  whole 
v;i8t,  substance  is  uniform  in  itf>  local  unity,  for  there  is  but  one  ocean,  and 
the  inhabitants  of  any  one  maritime  spot  may  visit  the  inhabitants  (A  any 
vtlk.  in  the  wide  woi'ld.      Its  dej»th   is  subrm-:   who  can  sound  it''      -'U 


POETRY  AND  MYSTERY  OF  THE  SEA.  177 

strength  is  sublime :  what  fabric  of  man  can  resist  it  ?  Its  voice  is  sub- 
Hme,  whether  in  the  prolonged  song  of  its  ripple  or  the  stern  music  of  its 
roar, — whether  it  utters  its  hollow  and  melancholy  tones  within  a  labyrinth 
of  wave-worn  caves,  or  thunders  at  the  base  of  some  huge  promontory,  or 
beats  against  a  toiling  vessel's  sides,  lulling  the  voyager  to  rest  with  the 
strains  of  its  wild  monotony,  or  dies  away,  in  the  calm  and  fading  twilight, 
in  gentle  murmurs  on  some  sheltered  shore. 

The  sea  possesses  beauty,  in  richness,  of  its  own ;  it  borrows  it  from 
earth,  and  air,  and  heaven.  The  clouds  lend  it  the  various  dyes  of  their 
wardrobe,  and  throw  down  upon  it  the  broad  masses  of  their  shadows  as 
they  go  sailing  and  sweeping  by.  The  rainbow  laves  in  it  its  many-colored 
feet.  The  sun  loves  to  visit  it,  and  the  moon  and  the  glittering  brother- 
hood of  planets  and  stars,  for  they  delight  themselves  in  its  beauty.  The 
sunbeams  return  from  it  in  showers  of  diamonds  and  glances  of  fire ;  the 
moonbeams  find  in  it  a  pathway  of  silver,  where  they  dance  to  and  fro, 
with  the  breezes  and  the  waves,  through  the  livelong  night.  It  has  a 
light,  too,  of  its  own, — a  soft  and  sparkling  light,  rivahng  the  stars ;  and 
often  does  the  ship  which  cuts  its  surface  leave  streaming  behind  a  Milky 
Way  of  dim  and  uncertain  lustre,  like  that  which  is  shining  dimly  above. 
It  harmonizes  in  its  forms  and  sounds  both  with  the  night  and  the  day.  It 
cheerfully  reflects  the  light,  and  it  unites  solemnly  with  the  darkness.  It 
imparts  sweetness  to  the  music  of  men,  and  grandeur  to  the  thunder  of 
heaven.  What  landscape  is  so  beautiful  as  one  upon  the  borders  of  the 
sea  ?  The  spirit  of  its  loveliness  is  from  the  waters  where  it  dwells  and 
rests,  singing  its  spells  and  scattering  its  charms  on  all  the  coasts.  What 
rocks  and  clifis  are  so  glorious  as  those  which  are  washed  by  the  chafing 
sea  ?  What  groves  and  fields  and  dwellings  are  so  enchanting  as  those 
which  stand  by  the  reflecting  sea  ? 

There  is  mystery  in  the  sea.  There  is  mystery  in  its  depths.  It  is 
unfathomed,  and,  perhaps,  unfathomable.  Who  can  tell,  who  shall  know, 
how  near  its  pits  run  down  to  the  central  core  of  the  world  ?  Who  can 
tell  what  wells,  what  fountains,  are  there,  to  which  the  fountains  of  the 
earth  are  but  drops  ?  Who  shall  say  whence  the  ocean  derives  those  in- 
exhaustible supplies  of  salt  which  so  impregnate  its  waters  that  all  the 
rivers  of  the  earth,  pouring  into  it  from  the  time  of  the  creation,  have  not 
been  able  to  freshen  them  ?  What  undescribed  monsters,  what  unimagi- 
nable shapes,  may  be  roving  in  the  profouiidest  places  of  the  sea,  never 
seeking— and  perhaps  never  able  to  seek — the  upper  waters  and  expose 
themselves  to  the  gaze  of  man !  What  glittering  riches,  what  heaps  of 
gold,  what  stores  of  gems,  there  must  be  scattered  in  lavish  profusion  in 


178 


POETRY  AND  MYSTERY  OF  THE  SEA. 


the  ocean's  lowest  bed !  "What  spoils  from  all  climates,  what  works  of  art 
from  all  lands,  have  been  engulfed  by  the  insatiable  and  reckless  waves ! 
Who  shall  go  down  to  examine  and  reclaim  this  im counted  and  idle  wealth  ? 
Who  bears  the  keys  of  the  deep  ? 

And  oh  !  yet  more  affecting  to  the  heart  and  mysterious  to  the 
mind,  what  companies  of  human  beings  are  locked  up  in  that  wide,  welter- 
ing, unsearchable  grave  of  the  sea !  Where  are  the  bodies  of  those  lost 
ones  over  whom  the  melancholy  waves  alone  have  been  chanting  requiem  ? 


CMKI'S   BY  THK  SKA. 


What  shroudri  were  wrapped  round  the  liiub.s  of  beauty,  and  of  manhood, 
and  of  placid  infancy,  when  they  were  laid  on  the  dark  floor  of  that  secret 
tomb?  Where  are  the  bones,  the  relics,  of  the  brave  and  the  timid,  the 
good  and  the  bad,  the  parent,  the  child,  the  wife,  tlio  husband,  tlie  brother, 
the  sister,  the  lover,  which  have  been  tossed  and  scattered  and  buried  by 
the  washing,  wasting,  wandering  sea?  The  journeying  winds  may  sigh  as 
year  after  yv/dv  they  pass  over  their  beds.  The  solitary  i-ain-cloud  may 
weep  in  darknesss  over  the  mingled  remains  which  He  strewcul  in  that  un- 
wonted cemetery.  But  who  sliall  tvll  tlin  lMT<'aviMl  to  what  sptjt  their 
affections  may  cling?     And  where  shall  human  tears  boshed  throughout 


MY  COUNTRY. 


179 


that  solemn  sepulchre ?  It  is  mystery  all.  When  shall  it  be  resolved? 
Who  shall  fmd  it  out?  Who  hut  IIo  to  whom  the  wildest  waves  listen 
reverently,  and  to  whom  all  nature  bows;  He  who  shall  one  day  speak,  and 
be  heard  in  ocean's  profoundest  caves ;  to  whom  the  deep,  even  the  lowest 
leep,  shall  give  up  its  dead ;  when  the  sun  shall  sicken,  and  the  earth  and 
the  isles  shall  languish,  and  the  heavens  be  rolled  together  like  a  scroll, 
and  there  shall  be  no  more  sea ! 


A  FIRST  SORRO  W. 


ADELAIDE    ANNE    PROCTOR. 


?RISE  !  this  day  shall  shine 

Forevermore, 

To  thee  a  star  divine 

On  Time's  dark  shore. 

Till  now  th}^  soul  has  been 
All  glad  an'd  gay ; 

Bid  it  awake,  and  look 
At  grief  to-day ! 

No  shade  has  come  between 

Thee  and  the  sun  ; 
Like  some  long  childish  dream 

Thy  life  has  run  : 

But  now  the  stream  has  reached 

A  dark,  deep  sea, 
And  Sorrow,  dim  and  crowned 

Is  waiting  thee. 

Each  of  God's  soldiers  bears 
A  sword  divine : 


Stretch  out  thy  trembling  hand* 
To-day  for  thine ! 

To  each  anointed  priest 
God's  summons  came : 

0  Soul,  he  speaks  to-day, 
And  calls  thy  name. 

Then,  with  slow,  reverent  step. 

And  beating  heart, 
From  out  thy  joyous  days 

Thou  must  depart, 

And,  leaving  all  behind. 

Come  forth  alone. 
To  join  the  chosen  band 

Around  the  throne. 

Raise  up  thine  eyes — be  strong, 

Nor  cast  away 
The  crown  that  God  has  given 

Thy  soul  to-day ! 


MY  COUNTRY. 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


?Kil|?HERE  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the 

"^iti  I^'^^oved  by  Heaven  o'er  all  the  world 
^  beside, 

Where  brighter  suns  dispense  serener 
light. 

And  milder  moons  imparadise  the  night ; 
A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valor,  truth, 
Time-tutored  age,  and  love-exalted  youth : 


The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  explores 
The   wealthiest   isles,   the   most   enchanting 

shores. 
Views  not  a  realm  so  bountiful  and  fair. 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air. 
In  every  clime,  the  magnet  of  his  soul, 
Touched  by  remembrance,  trembles  to  that 

pole ; 
For  in  this  land  of  Heaven's  peculiar  race 


180 


INDUSTRY  THE  ONLY  TRUE  SOURCE  OF  WEALTH. 


The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  grace, 
There  is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest, 
Wbere  man,  creation's  tyrant,  casts  aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and  pride, 
While  in  his  softened  looks  benignly  blend 
The    sire,   the    son,   the    husband,   brother, 

friend. 
Here  woman  reigns ;   the  mother,  daughter, 

wife. 
Strew  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of 

life: 
In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye. 
An  angel-guard  of  love  and  graces  lie ; 
Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet. 


And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 
"  Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth 

be  found  ? " 
Art  thou  a  man  ? — a  patriot  ? — look  arou/id  , 
0,  thou   shalt    find,   howe'er   thy   footsteps 

roam, 
That  land  thy  country,  and  that  spot  thy 

home ! 

Man,  through  all  ages  of  revolving  time, 
Unchanging  man,  in  every  varying  clime 
Deems  his  own  land  of  every  land  the  pride, 
Beloved  by  Heaven  o'er  all  the  world  beside; 
His  home  the  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest. 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest. 


INDUSTRY  THE  ONLY  TRUE  SOURCE  OF  WEALTH. 


DR.    GEORGE    BERKELEY. 


pNDUSTEY  is  the  natural  sure  way  to  success;  this  is  so  true,  that  it 
is  impossible  an  industrious  free  people  should  want  the  necessaries 
and  comforts  of  life,  or  an  idle  enjoy  them  under  any  form  of  govern- 
ment. Money  is  so  far  useful  to  the  public,  as  it  promoteth  industry, 
and  credit  having  the  same  eflfect,  is  of  the  same  value  with  money ;  but 
money  or  credit  circulating  through  a  nation  from  hand  to  hand,  without 
producing  labor  and  industry  in  the  inhabitants,  is  direct  gaming. 

It  is  not  impossible  for  cunning  men  to  make  such  plausible  schemes, 
as  may  draw  those  who  are  less  skilful  into  their  own  and  the  public  ruin. 
But  surely  there  is  no  man  of  sense  and  honesty  but  must  see  and  own, 
whether  he  understands  the  game  or  not,  that  it  is  an  evident  folly  for 
any  people,  instead  of  prosecuting  the  old  lionest  methods  of  industry  and 
frugality,  to  sit  down  to  a  public  gaming-table  and  play  off  their  money 
one  to  another. 

The  more  methods  there  are  in  a  state  for  acquiring  riclies  without 
industry  or  merit,  the  less  there  will  bo  of  either  in  that  atace:  this  is  ae 
evident  as  the  ruin  that  attends  it.  Besides,  when  money  is  shifted  from 
hand  to  hand  in  such  a  blind  fortuitous  manner,  that  some  men  shall  from 
nothing  acquire  in  an  instant  viust  estates,  without  the  least  desci't;  while 
others  are  as  suddenly  stripped  <>|  plentiful  r<ii-(iiii«'s,  and  l<'ft  on  llic  jiarish 
**'f  their  own  avarice  and   crcduHty,  what  can    bo  hoped   I'or  on   the  one 


"a  type  of  grandeur,  strength  and  maje?*-^' 


"A  LION'S  HEAD." 


181 


hand  but  abandoned  luxury  and  wantonness,  or  on  the  other  but  extreme 
madness  and  despair ! 

In  short,  all  projects  for  growing  rich  by  sudden  and  extraordinary 
methods,  as  they  operate  violently  on  the  passions  of  men,  and  encourage 
them  to  despise  the  slow  moderate  gains  that  are  to  be  made  by  an  honest 
Industry,  must  be  ruinous  to  the  public,  and  even  the  winners  themseivef; 
will  at  length  be  involved  in  the  public  ruin.    .     .    . 

God  grant  the  time  be  not  near  when  men  shall  say,  "  This  island  waa 
once  inhabited  by  a  religious,  brave,  sincere  people,  of  plain,  uncorrupt 
manners,  respecting  inbred  worth  rather  than  titles  and  appearances, 
assertors  of  liberty,  lovers  of  their  country,  jealous  of  tl;eir  own  rights, 
and  unwilling  to  infringe  the  rights  of  others ;  improvers  of  learning  and 
useful  arts,  enemies  to  luxury,  tender  of  other  men's  lives,  and  prodigal  of 
their  own;  inferior  in  nothing  to  the  old  Greeks  or  Romans,  and  superior 
to  each  of  those  people  in  the  perfections  of  the  other.  Such  were  our 
ancestors  during  their  rise  and  greatness;  but  they  degenerated,  grew 
servile  flatterers  of  men  in  power,  adopted  Epicurean  notions,  became 
venal,  corrupt,  injurious,  which  drew  upon  them  the  hatred  of  God  and 
man,  and  occasioned  their  final  ruin." 


"A  LION'S  HEAD." 


G.    WEATHERLY. 


'( )N  the  wall  it  hung  where  all  might 
pee  : 
^^•^  -       A  living   picture — so   the   people 
said — 
A  type  of  grandeur,  strength  and 
1         majesty— 
J  "  A  lion's  head." 

Yes,  if  you  gazed  awhile,  you  seemed  to  see 
The  eyes  grow  strangely  sad,  that  should 
have  raged ; 
Inrl,  lo !  your  thoughts  took  shape  uncon- 
sciously— 

"  A  lion  caged." 

You  saw  the  living  type  behind  his  bars. 
His  eyes  so  sad  with  mute  reproach,  but 
still 
k  very  King,  as  when  beneath  the  stars 
He  roved  at  wilL 


And  then  your  thoughts  took  further  groan<l, 
and  ran 
From  real  to  ideal,  till  at  length 
The  lion  caged  seemed  but  the  type  of  man 
In  his  best  strength  ; 

Man  grand,  majestic  in  both  word  and  deed, 

A  giant  in  both  intellect  and  will. 
Yet  trammeled  by  some  force  he  can  but  heed 
And  cannot  still ; 

Man  in  his  highest  attributes,  but  bound 
By  chains  of  circumstance  around  him  caa^ 

Yet  nobly  living  out  life's  daily  round. 
Till  work  be  past. 

So  musing,  shadows  fall  all  silently 

And  swift  recall  the  thoughts  that  waD" 
dering  fled : 

The  dream  has  ended,  and  you  can  but  8e€ 
"  A  lion's  head." 


182 


THE  PURITANS. 


LOVU  LIGHTENS  LABOR. 


<f  GOOD  wife  rose  from  her  bed  one 
morn, 
And  thought  with   a  nervous 
dread 
Of   the    piles    of    clothes    to  be 
wa,?hed,  and  more 
Than  a  dozen  mouths  to  be  fed. 
There's  the  meals  to  get  for  the  men  in  the 

field. 
And  the  children  to  fix  away 
To  school,  and  the  milk  to  be  skimmed  and 
churned  ; 
And  all  to  be  done  this  day. 

{t  had  rained  in  the  night,  and  all  the  wood 

Was  wet  as  it  could  be  ; 
There  were  puddings  and  pies  to  bake,  be- 
sides 

A  loaf  of  cake  for  tea. 
And  the  day  was  hot,  and  her  aching  head 

Throbbed  wearily  as  she  said, 
'  If  maidens  but  knew  what  good  wives  know, 

They  would  not  be  in  haste  to  wed  I " 

■•Jennie,  what  do   you   think    I   told   Ben 
Brown?" 

Called  the  farmer  from  the  well ; 
4.nd  a  flu.sh  crept  up  to  his  bronzed  brow. 

And  his  eyes  half  bashfully  fell ; 


"  It  was  this,"  he  said,  and  coming  near 

He  smiled,  and  stooping  down, 
Kissed  her   cheek — "  'twas   this :   that  yor 
were  the  best 

And  the  dearest  wife  in  town !  " 

The  farmer  went  back  to  the  field,  An4  the 
wife 
In  a  smiling,  ab.«ent  way 
Sang  snatches  of  tender  little  songs 

She'd  not  sung  for  many  a  day. 
And  the  jiain  in  her  head  was  gone,  and  the 
clothes 
Were  white  as  the  foam  of  the  sea ; 
Her  bread  was   light,  and  her  butter  was 
sweet 
And  as  golden  as  it  could  be. 

"  Jnst  think,"  the   children    all  cried  ia  A 
breath, 

"  Tom  Wood  has  run  off  to  sea  ! 
He  wouldn't,  I  know,  if  he'd  only  liad 

As  happy  a  home  as  we." 
The  night  came  down,  and   the  good  wile 
smiled 

To  herself,  as  she  softly  said : 
"  'Tis  so  sweet  to  labor  for  fho«!e  we  love,— 

It's  not  strange  that  maids  will  wed  I" 


THE  PURITANS. 


T.    B.    MACAULAY. 


|IIE  Puritans  were  men  whose  minds  had  derived  a  peculiar  character 
from  the  daily  contemplation  of  superior  hcings  and  eternal  intcr- 
f •"•''' *  osts.  Not  content  with  acknowledging,  in  general  terms,  an 
k  overruling  Providence,  they  habitually  ascribed  every  event  to 
1  the  will  of  the  Great  Being  for  whose  power  nothing  was  too 
J  vast,  for  whoso    inspection    nothing   was    too    minute.      To   know 

hirn,  to  serve  him,  to  enjoy  him  was  with  them  tlio  great  end  of  existence. 
They  rejeotcd  with  ajntom|)t  the  ceremonious  homage  which  other  sects 


"EFFIE  DEiVr;s.  • 
A  heroine  of  Scott's  "  Heart  of  Midlothian, 
From  a  famous  painting  by 

J.     F.    MiLl.AIS. 


THE  PURITANS.  183 


substituted  for  tho  pure  worship  of  the  soul.  Instead  of  catching 
occasional  glimpses  of  the  Deity  through  an  obscuring  veil,  they  aspired 
to  gaze  full  on  his  intolerable  brightness,  and  to  commune  with  him  face 
to  face.  Hence  originated  their  contempt  for  terrestrial  distinctions.  The 
difference  between  the  greatest  and  the  meanest  of  mankind  seemed  to 
vanish,  when  compared  with  the  boundless  interval  which  separated  the 
whole  race  from  him  on  whom  their  own  eyes  were  constantly  fixed. 
They  recognized  no  title  to  superiority  but  his  favor;  and,  confident  of 
that  favor,  they  despised  all  the  accomplishments  and  all  the  dignities  of 
the  world.  If  they  were  unacquainted  with  the  works  of  philosophers 
and  poets,  they  were  deeply  read  in  the  oracles  of  God.  If  their  names 
were  not  found  in  the  registers  of  heralds,  they  were  recorded  in  the 
Book  of  Life.  If  their  steps  were  not  accompanied  by  a  splendid  train 
of  menials,  legions  of  ministering  angels  had  charge  of  them. 

Their  palaces  were  houses  not  made  with  hands ;  their  diadems 
crowns  of  glory  which  should  never  fade  away.  On  the  rich  and  the 
eloquent,  on  nobles  and  priests,  they  looked  down  with  contempt :  for 
they  esteemed  themselves  rich  in  a  more  precious  treasure,  and  eloquent 
in  a  more  sublime  language — nobles  by  the  right  of  an  earlier  creation, 
and  priests  by  the  imposition  of  a  mightier  hand.  The  veiy  meanest  oi 
them  was  a  being  to  whose  fate  a  mysterious  and  terrible  importance 
belonged,  on  whose  slightest  action  the  spirits  of  light  and  darkness 
looked  with  anxious  interest,  who  had  been  destined,  before  heaven  and 
earth  were  created,  to  enjoy  a  felicity  which  should  continue  when  heaven 
and  earth  should  have  passed  away.  Events  which  short-sighted  poli- 
ticians ascribed  to  earthly  causes,  had  been  ordained  on  his  account.  For 
his  sake  empires  had  risen,  and  flourished,  and  decayed.  For  his  sake 
the  Almighty  had  proclaimed  his  will  by  the  pen  of  the  evangelist  and  the 
harp  of  the  prophet.  He  had  been  wrested  by  no  common  deliverer  from 
the  grasp  of  no  common  foe.  He  had  been  ransomed  by  the  sweat  of  no 
vulgar  agony,  by  the  blood  of  no  earthly  sacrifice.  It  was  for  him  that  the 
sun  had  been  darkened,  that  the  rocks  had  been  rent,  that  the  dead  had 
risen,  that  all  nature  had  shuddered  at  the  sufferings  of  her  expiring  God. 

Thus  the  Puritan  was  made  up  of  two  different  men, — the  one  all 
self-abasement,  penitence,  gratitude,  passion ;  the  other  proud,  calm,  in- 
flexible, sagacious.  He  prostrated  himself  in  the  dust  before  his  Maker  ; 
but  he  set  his  foot  on  the  neck  of  his  king.  In  his  devotional  retiremnnt 
he  prayed  with  convulsions  and  groans  and  tears.  He  was  half-maddened 
by  glorious  or  terrible  illusions.  He  heard  the  lyres  of  angels  or  the 
tempting  whispers  of  fiends.     He  caught  a  gleam  of  the  Beatific  Vision, 


].U 


THE  BELL  OF  "  THE  ATLANTIC." 


or  woke  screaming  from  dreams  of  fire.  Like  Vane,  he  thought  himsell 
entrusted  with  the  sceptre  of  the  millennial  year.  Like  Fleetwood,  hp 
cried  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul  that  God  had  hid  his  face  from  him. 
But  when  he  took  his  seat  in  the  council,  or  girt  on  his  sword  for  war, 
these  tempestuous  workings  of  the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible  trace 
behind  them.  People  who  saw  nothing  of  the  godly  but  their  uncouth 
visages,  and  heard  nothing  from  them  but  their  groans  and  their  whining 
hymns,  might  laugh  at  them.  But  those  had  little  reason  to  laugh  who 
.encountered  them  in  the  hall  of  debate  or  in  the  field  of  battle. 


TRF  BELL  OF  "  THE  ATLANTIC" 


^. 


MRS.    SIGOURNEY. 


;-b 


'OLL,  toll,  toll,  toll ! 

Thou  bell  by  billows  swung. 
And,  night  and  day,  thy  warning 
T  words 

";[■  Repeat  with  mournful  tongue ! 

^         Toll  for  the  queenly  boat. 

Wrecked  on  yon  rocky  shore  ! 
Sea-weed  is  in  her  palace  halls — 
She  rides  the  surge  no  more. 


Toll  for  the  master  bold, 

The  high-souled  and  the  brave, 
Who  ruled  her  like  a  thing  of  life 

Arnid  the  crested  wave  ! 
Toll  for  the  hardy  crew, 

Sons  of  the  storm  and  bla.st, 
Who  long  the  tyrant  ocean  dared  ; 

But  it  vanquished  them  at  last. 

Toll  for  the  rnan  of  God, 

Wlioflo  hallowed  voice  of  prayer 
Kose  calra  above  the  stifled  groan 

Of  that  intense  despair ! 
,4ow  precious  were  those  tones, 

On  that  sad  verge  of  life, 
Amid  tlif!  fiern;  and  freezing  storm 

And  the  mountain  billows'  strilei 

Toll  for  the  lover,  lost 
To  the  summoned  bridal  train, 


Bright  glows  a  picture  on  his  breast, 
Beneath  the  unfathoned  main. 

One  from  her  casement  gazeth 
Long  o'er  the  misty  sea  : 

He  cometh  not,  pale  maiden — 
His  heart  is  cold  to  thee  ! 

Toll  for  the  absent  sire, 

Who  to  his  home  drew  near, 
To  bless  a  glad,  expecting  group — 

Fond  wife,  and  children  dear ! 
They  heap  the  blazing  hearth. 

The  festal  board  is  spread. 
But  a  fearful  guest  is  at  the  gate  ;— 

Room  for  the  sheeted  dead  i 

Toll  for  the  lov»;d  and  fair. 

The  whelmed  beneath  the  tide — 
The  broken  harps  around  whose  strings 

The  dull  sea-monsters  glide! 
Mother  and  nursling  sweet. 

Reft  from  the  household  throng; 
There's  bitter  weeping  in  the  nest 

Where  breatlied  their  soul  of  song. 

Toll  for  tiir^  hearts  that  Ideed 

'Nfath  misery's  furrowing  trace; 

Toll  for  the  liaploMS  orphan  left, 
The  la.st  of  all  his  race  ' 


THE  BLIND  PRP]ACHKR. 


L&5 


Yea,  witli  thy  heaviest  knell, 
From  surge  to  rockj'-  shore, 

Toll  for  the  living — not  the  dead, 
Whose  mortal  woes  are  o'er. 

loll  toll,  toll ! 
O'er  breeze  and  billow  free ; 


And  with  thy  startling  lore  instrnct 
Each  rover  of  the  sea. 

fell  how  o'ei  proudest  joys 
May  swift  destruction  sweep, 

And  bid  him  build  his  hopes  on  high- 
Lone  teacher  of  the  deep  I 


THE    CYCLONE. 


THE  BLIND  PREACHER. 


WILLIAM  WIET. 


'T  was  one  Sanday,  as  I  was  traveling  tlirough  the  connty  of  Orange, 
that  my  eye  was  caught  by  a  cluster  of  horses  tied  near  a  ruinous, 
old,  wooden  house,  in  the  forest,  not  far  from  the  roadside.  Having 
frequently  seen  such  objects  before,  in  traveling  through  these  States, 
[  had  no  difficulty  in  understanding  that  this  was  a  place  of  religious  wor- 
ship. Devotion  alone  should  have  stopped  me,  to  join  in  the  duties  of  the 
congregation  ;  but  I  must  confess  that  curiosity  to  hear  the  preacher  of 
such  a  wilderness  was  not  the  least  of  my  motives.  On  entering,  I  was 
struck  with  his  preternatural  appearance.  He  was  a  tall  and  very  spare 
old  man;  his  head,  which  was  covered  with  a  white  linen  cap,  his  shriv- 
eled hands,  and  his  voice,  were  all  shaking  under  the  influence  of  palsy ; 
and  a  few  moments  ascertained  to  me  that  he  was  perfectly  blind. 

The  first  emotions  which  touched  my  breast  were  those  of  mingled 


186  'J'SE  BLIND  PREACHER. 


pity  and  veneration.  But  how  soon  were  all  my  feelings  changed !  The 
lips  of  Plato  were  never  more  worthy  of  a  prognostic  swarm  of  bees  than 
were  the  lips  of  this  holy  man.  It  was  a  day  of  the  administration  of  the 
sacrament ;  and  his  subject,  of  course,  was  the  passion  of  our  Saviour.  I 
had  heard  the  subject  handled  a  thousand  times ;  I  had  thought  it  ex- 
hausted long  ago.  Little  did  I  suppose  that,  in  the  wild  woods  of  America, 
I  was  to  meet  with  a  man  whose  eloquence  would  give  to  this  topic  a  now 
and  more  sublime  pathos  than  I  had  ever  before  witnessed. 

As  he  descended  from  the  pulpit,  to  distribute  the  mystic  symbols, 
there  was  a  peculiar,  a  more  than  human  solemnity  in  his  air  and  m.anner, 
which  made  my  blood  run  cold  and  my  whole  frame  shiver.  He  then  drew 
a  picture  of  the  sufferings  of  our  Saviour  ;  his  trial  before  Pilate ;  his  as- 
cent up  Calvary ;  his  crucifixion,  and  his  death.  I  knew  the  whole  history, 
but  never,  until  then,  had  I  heard  the  circumstances  so  selected,  so 
arranged,  so  colored.  It  was  all  new,  and  I  seemed  to  have  heard  it  for 
the  first  time  in  ray  life.  His  enunciation  was  so  deliberate,  that  his  voice 
trembled  on  every  syllable,  and  every  heart  in  the  assembly  trembled  in 
unison.  His  peculiar  phrases  had  such  force  of  description,  that  the  ori- 
ginal scene  appeared  to  be  at  that  moment  acting  before  our  eyes.  We 
saw  the  very  faces  of  the  Jews ;  the  staring,  frightful  distortions  of  malice 
and  rage.  We  saw  the  buffet ;  my  soul  kindled  with  a  flame  of  indigna- 
tion, and  my  hands  were  involuntarily  and  convulsively  clinched. 

But  when  he  came  to  touch  on  the  patience,  the  forgiving  meekness, 
of  our  Saviour ;  when  he  drew,  to  the  life,  his  blessed  eyes  streaming  in 
tears  to  heaven ;  his  voice  breathing  to  God  a  soft  and  gentle  prayer  of 
pardon  for  his  enemies,  "  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 
they  do ! " — the  voice  of  the  preacher,  which  all  along  faltered,  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  until,  his  utterance  being  entirely  obstructed  by  the 
force  of  his  feelings,  he  raised  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  and  burst  into 
a  loud  and  irrepressible  flow  of  grief.  The  cft'oct  was  inconceivable.  The 
whole  house  resounded  with  the  mingled  groans  and  sobs  and  shrieks  of 
the  congregation. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  tumult  had  subsided  so  far  as  to  permit 
him  to  proceed.  Indeed,  judging  by  the  usual  but  fallacious  standard  of 
my  own  weakness,  I  began  to  bo  very  uneasy  for  the  situation  of  the 
preacher.  For  I  could  not  conceive  how  he  would  bo  able  to  let  his  audi- 
ence down  from  the  height  to  which  ho  had  wound  thom,  without  impair- 
ing the  solemnity  and  dignity  of  his  subject,  or  perha])S  shocking  them  by 
the  abruptness  of  the  fall.  But — no;  the  descent  was  as  beautiful  and 
sublime  as  the  elevation  had  been  ra[)id  and  enthusiastic.     The  first  sen- 


A  HUNDRED  YEARS  FROM  NOW  187 

tence  with  which  he  broke  the  awful  silence  was  a  quotation  from  Rous-  • 
seau:  "  Socrates  died  like  a  philosopher  ;  but  Jesus  Christ  like  a  God." 

I  despair  of  giving  you  any  idea  of  the  effect  produced  by  this  short 
aentence,  unless  you  could  perfectly  conceive  the  whole  manner  of  the 
man,  as  well  as  the  peculiar  crisis  in  the  discourse.  Never  before  did  I 
completely  understand  what  Demosthenes  meant  by  laying  such  stress  on 
delivery.  You  are  to  bring  before  you  the  venerable  figure  of  the 
preacher,  his  blindness  constantly  recalling  to  your  recollection  old  Homer, 
Ossian  and  Milton,  and  associating  with  his  performance  the  melancholy 
grandeur  of  their  genius :  you  are  to  imagine  that  you  hear  his  slow,  sol- 
emn, well-accented  enunciation,  and  his  voice  of  affecting,  trembling  mel- 
ody;  you  are  to  remember  the  pitch  of  passion  and  enthusiasm  to  which 
the  congregation  were  raised ;  and  then  the  few  moments  of  portentous, 
death-like  silence  which  reigned  throughout  the  house :  the  preacher,  re- 
moving his  white  handkerchief  from  his  aged  face  (even  yet  wet  from  the 
recent  torrent  of  his  tears),  and  slowly  stretching  forth  the  palsied  hand 
which  holds  it,  begins  the  sentence :  "  Socrates  died  like  a  philosopher  "— 
then  pausing,  raised  his  other  hand,  pressing  them  both,  clasped  together, 
with  warmth  and  energy  to  his  breast,  lifting  his  "sightless  balls"  to  hea« 
ven,  and  pouring  his  whole  soul  into  his  tremulous  voice — "  but  Jesua 
Christ — like  a  God  !"  If  he  had  been  in  truth  an  angel  of  light,  the  effect 
could  scarcely  have  been  more  divine.    " 


A  HUNDRED  YEARS  FROM  NOW. 


MARY    A.    FORD. 


cs':f2o. 


IE  surging  sea  of  human  life  forever  Broad  fields  uncultured  and  unclaimed  ai« 

onward  rolls,  j           waiting  for  the  plow 

And  bears  to  the  eternal  shore  its  Of  progress  that  shall  make  them  bloom  & 

f^                  daily  freight  of  souls,  hundred  years  from  now. 
1-             Though  bravely  sails  our  bark  to- 

I                   day,  pale  Death  sits  at  the  prow,  ^-^j  should  we   try   so   earnestly   in   life's 

^             And  few  shall  know  we  ever  lived  short,  narrow  span, 

a  hundred  years  from  now.  Qn  golden  stairs  to  climb  so  high  above  our 

brother-man? 

0  mighty  human  brotherhood !  why  fiercely  i  Why  blindly  at  an  earthly  shrine  in  slavish 

war  and  strive,  I           homage  bow  ? 

While  God's  great  world  has  ample  space  for  Our  gold  will  rust,  ourselves  be  dust,  a  hun 

everything  alive  ?  I           dred  years  from  now. 
13 


188 


WOUNDED. 


Why  prize  so  much   the  world's  applause  ? 

Why  dread  so  much  its  blame  ? 
A  fleeting  echo  is  its  voice  of  censure  or  of 

fame ; 
The  praise  that  thrills  the  heart,  the  scorn 

that  dyes  with  shame  the  brow, 
vVill  be  as  long-forgotten  dreams  a  hundred 

years  from  now. 

J  patient  hearts,  that  meekly  bear  your 
weary  load  of  wrong ! 

0  earnest  hearts,  that  bravely  dare,  and, 
striving,  grow  more  strong ! 

Press  on  till  perfect  peace  is  won ;  you'll 
never  dream  of  how 

You  struggled  o'er  life's  thorny  road  a  hun- 
dred years  from  now. 

Grand,  lofty  souls,  who  live  and  toil  that 
freedom,  right,  and  truth 

Alone  may  rule  the  universe,  for  you  is  end- 
less youth ! 


When  'mid  the  blest  with  God  you  rest,  tlie 

grateful  land  shall  bow 
Above  your  clay  in  reverent  love  a  hundred 

years  from  now. 

Earth's  empires  rise    and   fall.     Time !  like 

breakers  on  thy  shore 
They  rush  upon  thy  rocks  of  doom,  go  down, 

and  are  no  more. 
The  starry  wilderness  of   worlds  that  gem 

night's  radiant  brow 
Will  light  the  skies  for  other  eyes  a  hundred 

years  from  now. 

Our  Father,  to  whose  sleepless  eye  the  past 

and  future  stand 
An  open  page,  like    babes  we  cling  to  thy 

protecting  hand  ; 
Change,  sorrow,  death  are  naught  to  us  if  we 

may  safely  bow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  throne  a  hundred 

years  from  now. 


WOUNDED. 


!l^ET  me  lie  down 
y^y     .lust  here  in  the  shade  of  this  can- 
%1t^^  non-torn  tree, 

Wy"*  Here,  low  on  the  trarn[iled  grass, 

where  I  may  see 
The  surgf!  of  the  combat,  and  where  I 
may  hear 

The  glad  cry  of  vict<jry,  cheer  upon  cheer : 
Let  rne  lie  down. 

Oh,  it  was  grand  ! 
Like  the  tempCHt  we  cliarged.  in  the  triumph 
U>  sliarc ; 


WILLIAM    E.    MILLER. 


Weary  and  faint. 
Prone  on  the  soldier's  couch,  ah,  how  can  I 

rest. 
With    this   shot-shattered   head    and   sabre- 
pierced  breast? 
Comrades,    at    roll-call    wlien    1    sliall     be 

sought, 
Say  I  fought  till  I  fell,  and  fell  where  I  fought, 
Wounded  and  faint. 

Oil,  til  at  last  charge! 
Right  tiirougli  the  dread  lioll-firo  of  slirapnel 
and  shell, 


The    tempCHt, — itfl    fury    and    thunder    were  Tlirough    without    faltering, — clear    lliioiigh 

there  :  with  a  yell ! 

On,  on,  o'er  entrenchments,  o'er  living  and  '   Right   in    their   midst,  in    the    turmoil    and 

dead,  gloom. 


With  the  foe  under  foot,  and  our   flag  over- 
liead  , 

Oil,  It  was  grand  I 


Like  heroes  wo  daslied,  at  the    mandate  ol 
doom  ! 

Oh,  that  hint  cliart,;<i! 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  DEATH. 


189 


It  was  duty  ! 
Some  things  are  worthless,  and  some  others 

so  good 
That  nations  who  buy  them  pay  only  in  blood. 
For  Freedom  and  Union  each  man  owes  his 

part; 
And  here  I  pay  my  share,  all  warm  from  my 
heart : 

It  is  duty. 

Dying  at  last ! 
My  mother,  dear  mother !  with  meek  tearful 

eye, 
Farewell!    and  God  bless  you,  for  ever  and 

aye! 
Oh  that  I  now  lay  on  your  pillowing  breast, 
To  breathe  my  last  sigh  on  the  bosom  first 
prest  ! 

Dying  at  last ! 

I  am  no  saint; 
But,  boys,  say  a  prayer.      There's  one  that 
begins 


"  Our  Father,"  and  then  says,  "  Forgive  ua 

our  sins;" 
Don't  forget  that  part,  say  that  strongly,  and 

then 
I'll  try  to  repeat  it,  and  you'll  say  "  Amen !" 

Ah  !  I'm  no  saint. 

Hark !  there's  a  shout. 
Raise  me  up,  comrades !  We  have  conquered, 

I  know ! — 
Up,  on  my  feet,  with  my  face  to  the  foe ! 
Ah !  there  flies  the  flag,  with  its  star -span- 
gles bright, 
The  promise  of  glory,  the  symbol  of  right  I 
Well  may  they  shout  I 

I'm  mustered  out. 
0  God  of  our  fathers,  our  freedom  prolong, 
And  tread  down  rebellion,  oppression,  and 
wrong ! 

0  land  of  earth's  hope,  on  thy  blood-  reddened 

sod, 

1  die  for  the  nation,  the  Union,  and  God  I 

I'm  mustered  out. 


THE  DRUNKARDS  DEATH. 


CHARLES   DICKENS. 


\T  last,  one  bitter  night,  he  sunk  down  on  the  door-step,  faint  and 
ill.  The  premature  decay  of  vice  and  profligacy  had  worn  him 
to  the  bone.  His  cheeks  were  hollow  and  livid ;  his  eyes  wertj 
sunken,  and  their  sight  was  dim.  His  legs  trembled  beneath  his 
weight,  and  a  cold  shiver  ran  through  every  limb. 
And  now  the  long-forgotten  scenes  of  a  mis-spent  life  crowded  thick 
fast  upon  him.  He  thought  of  the  time  when  he  had  a  home — a 
happy,  cheerful  home — and  of  those  who  peopled  it,  and  flocked  about  him 
then,  until  the  forms  of  his  elder  children  seemed  to  rise  from  the  grave, 
and  stand  about  him — so  plain,  so  clear,  and  so  distinct  they  were,  that  he 
could  touch  and  feel  them.  Looks  that  he  had  long  forgotten  were  fixed 
upon  him  once  more ;  voices  long  since  hushed  in  death  sounded  in  his  ears 
like  the  music  of  village  bells.  But  it  was  only  for  an  instant.  The  rain 
beat  heavily  upon  him ;  and  cold  and  hunger  were  gnawing  at  his  heart 
again.     He  rose,  and  dragged  his  feeble  Hmbs  a  few  paces  fui'ther.     The 


e^*» 


and 


190  THE  DRUNKARDS  DEATH. 

street  was  silent  and  empty ;  the  few  passengers  who  passed  by,  at  that 
late  hour,  hurried  quickly  on,  and  his  tremulous  voice  was  lost  in  the 
violence  of  the  storm.  Again  that  heavy  chill  struck  through  his  fi'ame, 
and  his  blood  seemed  to  stagnate  beneath  it.  He  coiled  himself  up  in  a 
projecting  doorway,  and  tried  to  sleep. 

But  sleep  had  fled  from  his  dull  and  glazed  eyes.  His  mind  wandered 
strangely,  but  he  was  awake  and  conscious.  The  well-known  shout  of 
drunken  mirth  sounded  in  his  ear,  the  glass  was  at  his  lips,  the  board  was 
covered  with  choice  rich  food — they  were  before  him  ;  he  could  see  them 
all,  he  had  but  to  reach  out  his  hand,  and  take  them, — and,  though  the 
illusion  was  reality  itself,  he  knew  that  he  was  sitting  alone  in  the  deserted 
street,  watching  the  rain-drops  as  they  pattered  on  the  stones  ;  that  death 
was  coming  upon  him  by  inches — and  that  there  were  none  to  care  for  or 
help  him.  Suddenly  he  started  up  in  the  extremity  of  terror.  He  had 
heard  his  own  voice  shouting  in  the  night  air,  he  knew  not  what  or  why. 
Hark  !  A  groan  ! — another  !  His  senses  were  leaving  him  :  half-formed 
and  incoherent  words  burst  from  his  lips ;  and  his  hands  sought  to  tear 
and  lacerate  his  flesh.  He  was  going  mad,  and  he  shrieked  for  help  till 
his  voice  failed  him. 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  up  the  long  dismal  street.  He  recollected 
that  outcasts  like  himself,  condemned  to  wander  day  and  night  in  those 
dreadful  streets,  had  sometimes  gone  distracted  with  their  own  loneliness. 
He  remembered  to  have  heard  many  years  before  that  a  homeless  wretch 
had  once  been  found  in  a  solitary  corner,  sharpening  a  rusty  knife  to 
plunge  into  his  own  heart,  preferring  death  to  that  endless,  weary,  wan- 
dering to  and  fro.  In  an  instant  his  resolve  was  taken,  his  limbs  received 
new  life ;  he  ran  quickly  from  the  spot,  and  paused  not  for  breath  until  he 
reached  the  river  side.  He  crept  softly  down  the  steep  stone  stairs  that 
lead  from  the  commencement  of  Waterloo  Bridge,  down  to  the  water's  level. 
He  crouched  into  a  corner,  and  held  his  breath,  as  the  patrol  passed. 
Never  did  prisoner's  heart  throb  with  the  hope  of  liberty  and  life,  half  so 
eagerly  as  did  that  of  the  wretched  man  at  the  prospect  of  death.  The 
watch  pjis.sed  close  to  him,  but  he  remained  unobserved;  and  after  waiting 
till  the  sound  of  footsteps  bad  died  away  in  the  distance,  he  cautiously 
descended,  and  stood  beneath  the  gloomy  arch  tliat  forms  tln^  landing-jilace 
from  the  river. 

The  tide  was  in,  and  the  water  flowed  at  his  feet.  The  rain  had  ceased, 
the  wind  was  lulled,  and  all  was,  for  the  moment,  still  and  quiet, — so  quiet, 
that  the  slightest  sound  on  the  opposite  bank,  even  the  rippling  of  the 
water  a.gainst  the  barges,  that  were  moored  there,  was  distinctly  audible 


LOVE  ME  LITTI.E,  LOVE  ME  LONG. 


191 


to  his  ear.  The  stream  stole  languidly  and  sluggishly  on.  Strange  and 
fantastic  forms  rose  to  the  surface,  and  beckoned  him  to  approach ;  dark 
gleaming  eyes  peered  from  the  water,  and  seemed  to  mock  his  hesitation, 
while  hollow  murmurs  from  behind  urged  him  onward.  He  retreated  a 
few  paces,  took  a  short  run,  a  desperate  leap,  and  plunged  into  the 
water. 

Not  five  seconds  had  passed  when  he  rose  to  the  water's  surface — but 
what  a  change  had  taken  place  in  that  short  time,  in  all  his  thoughts  and 
feelings !  Life — life — in  any  form,  poverty,  misery,  starvation — anything 
but  death.  He  fought  and  struggled  with  the  water  that  closed  over  his 
head,  and  screamed  in  agonies  of  terror.  The  curse  of  his  own  son  rang 
in  his  ears.  The  shore — but  one  foot  of  dry  ground — he  could  almost 
touch  the  step.  One  hand's  breadth  nearer,  and  he  was  saved — but  the 
tide  bore  him  onward,  under  the  dark  arches  of  the  bridge,  and  he  sank  to 
the  bottom.  Again  he  rose  and  struggled  for  life.  For  one  instant — for 
one  brief  instant — the  buildings  on  the  river's  banks,  the  lights  on  the  bridge 
through  which  the  current  had  borne  him,  the  black  water,  and  the  fast- 
flying  clouds,  were  distinctly  visible — once  more  he  sunk,  and  once  again 
he  rose.  Bright  flames  of  fire  shot  up  from  earth  to  heaven,  and 
reeled  before  his  eyes,  while  the  water  thundered  in  his  ears,  and  stunned 
him  with  its  furious  roar. 

A  week  afterwards  the  body  was  washed  ashore,  some  miles  down  the 
river,  a  swollen  and  disfigured  mass.  Unrecognized  and  unpitied,  it  wa3 
borne  to  the  grave  ;  and  there  it  has  long  since  mouldered  away  ! 


LOVE  ME  LITTLE,  LOVE  ME  LONG. 


ORIGINALLY    PRINTED   IN    1569. 


gOVE  rue  little,  love  me  long ! 

Is  the  burden  of  my  song ; 

Love  that  is  too  hot  and  strong 
Burneth  soon  to  waste. 

Still  I  would  not  have  thee  cold, — 

Not  too  backward,  nor  too  bold  ; 

Love  that  lasteth  till  'tis  old 
Fadeth  not  in  haste. 
Love  me  little,  love  me  long! 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 


If  thou  lovest  me  too  much, 
'Twill  not  prove  as  true  a  touch  -, 
Love  me  little  more  than  such, — 

For  I  fear  the  end. 
I'm  with  little  well  content, 
And  a  little  from  thee  sent 
Is  enough,  with  true  intent 

To  be  steadfast,  friend. 
Love  .r»?  iiitle,  love  me  long! 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 


192 


YOU  PUT  NO  FLOWERS  ON  MY  PAPA'S  GRAVE. 


Ssy  thcu  lovest  me,  while  thou  live 
I  to  thee  my  love  will  give, 
Never  dreaming  to  deceive 

While  that  life  endures ; 
Nay,  and  after  death,  in  sooth, 
I  to  thee  will  keep  my  truth, 
As  now  when  in  my  May  of  youth  : 

This  my  love  assures. 

Constant  love  is  moderate  ever, 
And  it  will  through  life  persever ; 
Give  me  that  with  true  endeavor,^ 
I  will  it  restore. 


A  suit  of  durance  l^t  it  be, 
For  all  weathers, — that  for  me, — 
For  the  land  or  for  the  sea : 
Lasting  evermore. 

Winter's  cold  or  summer's  heat, 
Autumn's  tempests  on  it  beat ; 
It  can  never  know  defeat. 

Never  can  rebel : 
Such  the  love  that  I  would  gain, 
Such  the  love,  I  tell  thee  plain. 
Thou  must  give,  or  woo  in  vain : 

So  to  thee — farewell ! 


YOU  PUT  NO  FLOWERS  ON  MY  PAPA'S  GRAVE. 


^Mm 


C.    E.    L.    HOLMES. 


>! 


qITH  sable-draped  banners,  and  slow  Close  crouched  by  the  portals,  a  sunny-haired 

measured  tread,  j  child 

^     .  .le    flower-laden    ranks   pass   the  Besought  him  in  accents  which  grief  render- 
gates  of  the  dead  ;  ed  wild ; 
And  seeking  each  mound  where  a 

comrade's  form  rests,  "  °^  '  ^'^'  ^^  ^*'  g°°*^'  ^°^  ^^^^  '^>'  ^^  '^'^'^ 
Leave    tear-bedewed    garlands    to  ^^^* 

bloom  on  his  breast.  ^^ '  ^^^ '  ^"^  y°"  P^^'  ^^  '"3'  '^^^'  P^P^'^ 

grave  ? 

I  know  he  was  poor,  but  as  kind  and  a.s  true 

As  ever  marched  into  the  battle  with  you — 

His  grave  is  so  humble,  no  stone  marks  tlie 

spot. 
You  may  not  have  seen  it.     Oh,  say  you  did 

not  1 
For  my  poor  heart  will  break   if  you  knew 

he  was  there. 
And   thought  him  too    lowly   your  offerings 

to  share. 
He  didn't  die  lowly — ho  poured  his  heart's 

blood. 
In     rich    crimson    streams,    from     the    (op 

crowning  soil 
Of  tlio  breastworks  wlmli  stood   in    front  .if 

the  fight— 
And  died  shouting,  '  Onward '   lor  (Iml    and 

the  right!' 


Ended  at  last  is  the  labor  of  love ; 
Gtice  more  through  the  gateway  the  saddened 

line«  move — 
A  wailing  of  anguish,  a  sobbing  of  grief, 


Falls  low  on   the   ear  of   the   battle  scarred  ,  0'<t  all  his  d<'ad  comrades  your  bright  gar 
chief-  I  land.H  wave. 


THE  COCKNEY. 


L93 


But  you  haven't  put  one  on  my  papa's  grave. 
If  mamma  were  here — but  she  lies  by  his  side, 
Her  wearied  heart  broke  when  our  dear  papa 
died." 

"  Battalion  !  file   left !  countermarch  !"  cried 

the  chief, 
**  This  young  orphan'd  maid  hath  full  cause 

for  her  grief." 
Then   up  in  his   arms  from  the   hot,  dusty 

street, 
He  lifted  the  maiden,  while  in  through  the 

gate 
The  long  line  repasses,  and  many  an  eye 
Pays  fresh  tribute  of  tears  to  the  lone  orphan's 

sigh. 

"  This  way,  it  is — here,  sir — right  under  this 

tree ; 
They  lie  close  together,  with  just  room  for 

me." 

"  Halt  !  Cover  with  roses  each  lowly  green 
mound — 

A  love  pure  as  this  makes  these  graves  hal- 
lowed ground." 


"  Oh  !  thank  you,  kind  sir !  I  ne'er  can  lepay 

The  kindness  you've  shown  little  Daisy  to- 
day ; 

But  I'll  pray  for  you  here,  each  day  while  1 
live, 

'  Tis  all  that  a  poor  soldier's  orphan  can  give. 

I  shall  see  papa  soon,  and  dear  mamma  too— 
I  dreamed   so  last  night,  and  I  know  'twill 

come  true ; 
And  they  will  both  bless  you,  I  know,  when 

I  say 
How  you  folded  your  arms  round  their  dear 

one  to-day — 
How  you  cheered  her  sad  heart,  and  soothed 

it  to  rest. 
And  hushed  its  wild  throbs  on  your  strong, 

noble  breast ; 
And  when  the  kind  angels  shall  call  you  to 

come, 
We'll   welcome   you   there  to   our  beautiful 

home. 
Where  death  never  comes,  his  black  banners 

to  wave, 
An<l  the  beautiful  flowers  ne'er  weep  o'er  a 

grave." 


TSU  COCKNEY. 


JOHN    G.    SAXE. 


5T  was  in  my  foreign  travel, 
5       At  a  famous  Flemish  inn, 
?  That  I  met  a  stoutish  person 
^       With  a  very  ruddy  skin  ; 
And  his  hair  was  something  sandy, 

And  was  done  in  knotty  curls, 
And  was  parted  in  the  middle, 
In  the  manner  of  a  girl's. 

He  was  clad  in  checkered  trousers, 

And  his  coat  was  of  a  sort 
To  suggest  a  scanty  pattern, 

It  was  bobbed  so  very  short ; 
And  his  cap  was  very  little, 

Such  as  soldiers  often  use ; 
And  he  wore  a  pair  of  gaiters, 

And  extremely  heavy  shoes. 


I  addressed  the  man  in  English, 

And  he  answered  in  the  same, 
Though  he  spoke  it  in  a  fashion 

That  I  thought  a  little  lame ; 
For  the  aspirate  was  missing 

Where  the  letter  should  have  been. 
But  where'er  it  wasn't  wanted, 

He  was  sure  to  put  it  in '. 

When  I  spoke  with  admiration 

Of  St.  Peter's  mighty  dome. 
He  remarked :  "  'T  is  really  nothing 

To  the  sights  we'  ave  at  'ome !" 
And  declared  upon  his  honor, — 

Though,  of  course,  't  was  very  queer,- 
That  he  doubted  if  the  Romans 

'Ad  the  Aart  of  making  beer  I 


194 


THE  CORONATION  OF  ANNE  BOLEYN. 


Then  we  talked  of  the  countries, 

And  he  said  that  he  had  heard 
That  h  Americans  spoke  h  English, 

But  he  deemed  it  quite  ^absurd  ; 
Yet  he  felt  the  deepest  Aintrest 

In  the  missionary  work, 
And  would  like  to  know  if  Georgia 

Was  in  Boston  or  New  York  ! 


When  I  left  the  man  in  gaiters, 

He  was  grumbling,  o'er  his  gin, 
At  the  charges  of  his  hostess 

At  that  famous  Flemish  inn  ; 
And  he  looked  a  very  Briton, 

(So,  methinks,  I  see  him  still,) 
As  he  pocketed  the  candle 

That  was  mentioned  in  the  bill ! 


THE  CORONATION  OF  ANNE  BOLEYN. 


J.    A.    FROUDE. 


I^LOPtlOUS  as  the  spectacle  was,  perhaps,  however  it  passed  unheeded. 
Those  eyes  were  watching  all  for  another  object,  which  now  drew 
near.  In  an  open  space  behind  the  constable  there  was  seen 
approaching  "  a  white  chariot,"  drawn  by  two  palfreys  in  white 
damask  which  swept  the  ground,  a  golden  canopy  borne  above  it 
making  music  with  silver  bells :  and  in  the  chariot  sat  the  observed 
of  all  observers,  the  beautiful  occasion  of  all  this  glittering  homage; 
fortune's  plaything  of  the  hour,  the  Queen  of  England — queen  at  last ! — 
borne  along  upon  the  waves  of  this  sea  of  glory,  breathing  the  perfumed 
incense  of  trreatness  which  she  had  risked  her  fair  name,  her  delicacy,  her 
honor,  her  self-respect,  to  win ;  and  she  had  won  it. 

There  she  sat,  dressed  in  white  tissue  robes,  her  fair  hair  flowing 
loose  over  her  shoulders,  and  her  temples  circled  with  a  light  coronet  of 
gold  and  diamonds — most  beautiful — loveliest — most  favored,  perhaps,  aa 
ehe  .seemed  at  that  hour,  of  all  England's  daughters.  Alas  !  "  withii?  the 
hollow  round  of  that  coronet — 


Kept  Death  his  court,  and  there  the  antick  sate 
Scoffing  her  state  and  grinning  at  her  pomp  ; 
Allowing  her  a  little  breath,  a  little  sceno 
To  monarchizo,  bo  feared,  and  kill  with  looks, 
InfuHing  her  with  self  and  vain  conceit, 
Ah  if  the  Besh  which  walled  about  her  lifo 
Were  brass  impregnable  ;  and  humored  thus, 
Bored  thro'  her  castle  walls  ;  an<l  far<'Wfll,  Queen  !  " 


Fatal  gift  of  greatness  !  so  dangerous  ever !  .so  more  than  dangerous 
*«i  those  tremendous  times  when   the  fountains  are  broken  loose  of  the 


SCATTER  THE  GERMS  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL.  I95 

great  deeps  of  thought,  and  nations  are  in  the  throes  of  revolution  ;  when 
ancient  order  and  hiw  and  traditions  are  splitting  in  the  social  earthquake ; 
and  as  the  opposing  forces  wrestle  to  and  fro,  those  unhappy  ones  who 
stand  out  above  the  crowd  become  the  symbols  of  the  struggle,  and  fall  the 
victims  of  its  alternating  fortunes.  And  what  if  into  an  unsteady  heart 
and  brain,  intoxicated  with  splendor,  the  outward  chaos  should  find  ita 
way,  converting  the  poor  silly  soul  into  an  image  of  the  same  confusion — 
if  conscience  should  be  deposed  from  her  high  place,  and  the  Pandora  box 
be  broken  loose  of  passions  and  sensualities  and  follies;  and  at  length  there 
be  nothing  left  of  all  which  man  or  woman  ought  to  value,  save  hope  of 
God's  forgiveness. 

Three  short  years  have  yet  to  pass,  and  again,  on  a  summer  morning, 
Queen  Anne  Boleyn  will  leave  the  Tower  of  London — not  radiant  then 
with  beauty  on  a  gay  errand  of  coronation,  but  a  poor,  wandering  ghost, 
on  a  sad,  tragic  errand,  from  which  she  will  never  more  return,  passing 
away  out  of  an  earth  where  she  may  stay  no  longer,  into  a  presence  where, 
nevertheless,  we  know  that  all  is  well — for  all  of  us — and  therefore  for 
her. 

Did  any  twinge  of  remorse,  any  pang  of  painful  recollection,  pierce  at 
that  moment  the  incense  of  glory  which  she  was  inhaling  ?  Did  any 
vision  flit  across  her  of  a  sad,  mourning  figure  which  once  had  stood  where 
she  was  standing,  now  desolate,  neglected,  sinking  into  the  darkening  twi- 
light of  a  life  cut  short  by  sorrow  ?  Who  can  tell  ?  At  such  a  time  that 
figure  would  have  weighed  heavily  upon  a  noble  mind,  and  a  wise  mind 
would  have  been  taught  by  the  thought  of  it,  that,  although  life  be  fleet- 
ing as  a  dream,  it  is  long  enough  to  experience  strange  vicissitudes  of  for- 
tune. 


SCATTER  THE  GERMS  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


Si^p  VXTER  the  germs  of  the  beautiful,        Let  the  pure,  and  the  fair,  and  the  gracefm 
By  the  wayside  let  them  fall,  there 


^^^   That  the  rose   may  spring   by  the 
cottage  gate, 
And  the  vine  on  the  garden  wall ; 
Cover  the  rough  and  the  rude  of  earth 
With  a  veil  of  leaves  and  flowers, 
And  mark  with  the  opening  bud  and  cup 
The  march  of  summer  hours  ! 

Scatter  the  germs  of  the  beautiful 
In  the  holy  shrine  of  home ; 


In  the  loveliest  lustre  come. 
Leave  not  a  trace  of  deformity 

In  the  temple  of  the  heart. 
But  gather  about  its  hearth  the  gem» 

Of  nature  and  of  art ! 

Scatter  the  germs  of  the  beautiful 
In  the  temples  of  our  God — 

The  God  who  starred  the  uplifted  sky. 
And  flowered  the  trampled  sod ! 


196 


MY  CHILDHOOD  HOME. 


When  he  huilt  a  temple  for  himself, 
And  a  home  for  his  priestly  race, 

He  reared  each  arm  in  symmetry, 
And  covered  each  line  in  grace. 

Scatter  the  germs  of  the  beautifal 
In  the  depths  of  the  human  soul ! 


They  shall  bud  and  blossom  and  bear  the 
fruit. 

While  the  endless  ages  roll ; 
Plant  with  the  flowers  of  charity 

The  portals  of  the  tomb, 
And  fair  and  pure  about  thy  path 

In  Paradise  shall  bloom. 


MY  CHILDHOOD  HOME, 


B.    P.    SHILLABER. 


^13^ 


fllERE'S  a  little  low  hut  by  the  river's 

side, 
'Within  the  sound  of  its  ri[)pling  tide ; 
Its  walla  are  grey  with  the  moBsea  of 

years, 
And  itfl  roof  all  crumbled  and   old 
appears ; 

But  fairer  to  me  than  castle's  pride 
Is  the  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side. 


The  little  low  liut  was  rny  natal  nest. 
When  my  rhildhood  pasHcd — Life's   spring- 
time blest; 
Where  the  hopes  of  ardent  yvuth  are  formed. 


And  the  sun  of  promise  my  young    heart 

warmed, 
Ere  I  threw  myself  on  life's  swift  tide, 
And  left  the  dear  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

That  little  low  hut,  in  lowly  guise. 
Was  soft  and  grand  to  my  yoiitliful  eyes, 
And  fair(!r  trees  were  ne'er  known  Uofore, 
Than  tlio  ajiple  trees  by  the  liumhlo  door,— 
That  my  father  loved  for  their  tlirifty  pride, — 
That  shadowed  the  liut  liy  the  river's  side. 

That  little  low  Iiut  had  a  glad  hearthstone, 
That  echoed  of  old  with  a  pleasant  tone, 


THE  RUINED  MERCHANT. 


197 


A.ad  brothers  and  sisters,  a  merry  crew, 
Filled  the  hours  with  pleasure  as  on  they 

flew ; 
But  one  by  one  the  loved  ones  died, 
That  dwelt  in  the  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

The  father  revered  and  the  children  gay 
The  graves  of  the  world  have  called  away ; 
But  quietly,  all  alone,  here  sits 
By   the  pleasant  window,   in  summer,   and 

knits, 
An  aged  woman,  long  years  allied 
With  the  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

That  little  low  hut  to  the  lonely  wife 
Is  the  cherished  stage  of  her  active  life  ; 
Each  scene  is  recalled  in  memory's  beam. 
As  she  sits  by  the  window  in  pensive  dream. 


And  joys  and  woes  roll  back  like  a  tide 
In  that  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

My  mother — alone  by  the  river's  side 

She  waits  for  the  flood  of  the  heavenly  tide 

And  the  voice  that  shall  thrill  her  heart  wiU. 

its  call 
To  meet  once  more  with  the  dear  ones  all, 
And  forms  in  a  region  beautified. 
The  band  that  once  met  by  the  river's  side. 

The  dear  old  hut  by  the  river's  side 

With  the   warmest   pulse    of   my  heart    La 

allied, — 
And  a  glory  is  over  its  dark  walls  thrown, 
That*  statelier  fabrics  have  never  known,— 
And  I  shall  love  with  a  fonder  pride 
That  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side. 


r^ih 


THE  RUINED  MERCHANT. 

CORA    M.    EAGER. 


'  'T T.VGE  home  with  sloping  lawn, 

tiiid  trellised  vines  and  flowers. 

And  little  feet  to  chase  away  the 

rosy-fingered  hours ; 
A  fair  young  face  to   part,  at  eve, 

the  shadows  in  the  door ; — 
I  picture  thus  a  home  I  knew  in 
happy  days  of  yore. 


one,  a    cherub   thing   of    three,   with 

childish  heart  elate, 
"  Papa  is  tomin  let  me  do  to  meet  'im  at  te 

date .'" 
Another  takes  the  music  up,  and  flings  it  on 

the  air, 
"  Papa  has  come,  but  why  so  slow  his  footstep 

on  the  stair?" 

"0  father!    did   you   bring  the   books   I've 

waited  for  so  long, 
The    baby's   rocking-horse   and    drum,   and 

mother's  '  angel  song  T  ^ 

And  did  you  see  " — but  something  holds  the 

questioning  lips  apart. 
And  something  settles  very  still  upon  that 

ioyons  heart. 


The  quick-discerning  wife  bend.'j  ^owr,  frill 

her  white  hand  to  stay 
The  clouds  from  tangling  with  the  curls  jhal 

on  his  forehead  lay ; 
To  ask,  in  gentle  tones,  "  Beloved,  by  whal 

rude  tempest  tossed  ?" 
And  list  the   hollow,    "  Beggared,  lost, — aJ 

ruined,  poor,  and  lost !" 

"  Nay,  say  not  so,  for  I  am  here  to  share 

misfortune's  hour, 
And  prove  how  better  far  than  gold  is  love'J 

unfailing  dower. 
Let  wealth  take  wings  and  fly  away,  as  im 

as  wings  can  soar. 
The  bird  of  love  will  hover  near,  and  only 

sing  the  more." 

"  All  lost,  papa  ?  why  here  am  I ;  and,  fath« 

see  how  tall ; 
I  measure  fully  three  feet  four,  upon  the  kit 

chen  wall ; 
I'll  tend  the  flowers,  feed  the  birds,  and  have 

such  lots  of  fun, 
I'm  big  enough  to  work,  papa,  for  I'm  ths 

oldest  son." 


198 


TRUTH. 


"  And  I,  papa,  am  almost  five,"  says  curly-  J 

headed  Rose,  ! 

"  And  I  can  learn  to  sew,  papa,  and  make  all 

dolly's  clothes. 
But  what  is  '  poor,' — to  stay  at  home  and  have  , 

no  place  to  go  ?  ' 

Oh !  then  I'll  ask  the  Lord,  to-night,  to  make  j 

us  always  so."  i 

"  I'se  here,  papa ;    I  isn't  lost !"  and  on  his 

father's  knee  | 

He  lays  his  sunny  head  to  rest,  that  baby-  j 

boy  of  three. 
"  And  if  we  get  too  poor  to  live,"  says  little 

Rose,  "  you  know 
rhere  is  a  oetter  place,  papa,  a  heaven  where 

we  can  go. 

"And  God  will  come  and  take  us  there,  dear 

father,  if  we  pray, 
We  need'nt  fear  the  road,  papa.  He  surely 

knows  the  way." 
Then   from    the   corner,   staff  in   hand,  the 

grandma  rises  slow. 
Her   snowy   cap-strings   in    the   breeze    soft 

fluttering  to  and  fro : 

Totters   across    the  parlor  floor,  by   aid   of 

kindly  hands, 
Counting  in  every  little  face,  her  life's  declin- 

\ng  sands ; 


Reaches  his  side,  and  whispers  low,  "  God'a 

promises  are  su'-e ; 
For  every  grievous  wound,  my  son.  He  sends 

a  ready  cure." 

The  father  clasps  her  Land  in  his,  and  quickly 
turns  aside. 

The  heaving  chest,  the  rising  sigh,  the  com- 
ing tear,  to  hide : 

Folds  to  his  heart  those  loving  ones,  and  kis- 
ses o'er  and  o'er 

That  noble  wife  wliose  faithful  heart  he  little 
knew  before. 

"  May  God  forgive  me  !  What  is  wealth  to 
these  more  precious  things. 

Whose  rich  affection  round  my  heart  a  cease- 
less odor  flings  ? 

I  think  He  knew  my  sordid  soul  was  getting 
proud  and  cold, 

And  thus  to  save  me,  gave  me  these,  and  took 
away  my  gold. 

"  Dear  ones,  forgive  me  ;  nevermore  will  I 

forget  the  rod 
That  brought  me  safely  unto  you,  and  led 

me  back  to  God. 
I  am  not  poor  while  these  bright  links  of 

priceless  love  remain, 
And,   Heaven    helping,    never    more    shall 

blindness  hide  the  chain." 


TE  UTH. 


JOHN     MILTON. 


TiPoUTH,  indeed,  came  once  into  the  world  with  her  Divine  Master, 
and  w;ia  a  perfect  shape,  most  glorious  to  look  on ;  but  when  he 
ascended,  and  his  apostles  after  him  were  laid  asleep,  then  straight 
arose  a  wicked  race  of  deceivers,  who,  as  that  story  goes  of  the 
Egyptian  Typhoii  with  his  conspirators,  how  they  dealt  with  tho 
god  Osiris,  took  the  virgin  Tr^ith,  hewed  her  lovely  form  into  % 
thousand  pieces,  and  scattered  them  to  the  four  winds.  From  that  time, 
ever  since,  the  sad  friends  of  Truth,  such  as  durst  appear,  imitating  the 
careful  search  that  Isis  made  for  the  mangled  body  of  Osiris,  went  up  and 


i 


THE  MILKMAID. 


199 


down  gathering  up  limb  by  limb,  still  as  they  could  find  them.  We  have 
not  yet  found  them  all,  Lords  and  Commons,  nor  ever  shall  do,  till 
her  Master's  second  coming;  he  shall  bring  together  every  joint  and 
member,  and  mould  them  into  an  immortal  feature  of  loveliness  and 
perfection. 


TUB  DEATH-BED. 


THOMAS   HOOD. 


watched  her   breathing   through 

the   night, — 
Her  breathing  soft  and  low, — 
As  in  her  breast  the   wave  of  life 
Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak. 
So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers, 
To  eke  her  living  out. 


Our  weary  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied, — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came,  dim  and  sad, 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed ; — she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 


THE  MILKMAID. 


JEFFERYS  TAYLOR. 


X   MILKMAID,  who  poised  a  full  pail  I  Of  these  some  may  die, — we'll  suppose  seven- 
%        on  her  head,  teen, 

s^^q^  Thus  mused  on  her  prospects  in  life,  :  Seventeen !  not  so  many, — say  ten  at  the  most, 
T  it  is  said :  Which  will  leave  fifty  chickens  to  boil  or  to 


"  Let  me  see, — I  should  think  that 
this  milk  will  procure 
One  hundred  good  eggs,  or  fourscore,  to  be 
sure. 

"Well   then, — stop   a   bit, — it  must   not   be 
forgotten. 


roast. 


"  But  then    there's  their  barley:  how  much 

will  they  need  ? 
Wh}'',  they  take  but  one  grain  at  a  time  when 

they  feed, — 
So  that's  a  mere  trifle  ;  now  then,  let  us  see, 


Some  of  these  may  be  broken,  and  some  may       . .       /•  •  i    <.       •       u  u 

•'  ■'      At  a  fair   market  price   how  much    money 


be  rotten  ; 

But  if  twenty  for  accident  should  be  detached. 
It  will  leave  me  just  sixty  sound  eggs  to  be 

hatched. 

"  Well,  sixty  sound  eggs, — no,  sound  chick- 
ens, I  mean : 


there'll  be. 

"  Six  shillings  a  jiair — five — four — three-and- 

six. 
To  prevent  all    mistakes,  that   low   price  I 

will  fix ; 


200 


THE  WATER-MILL. 


Now  what  will  that  make?  fifty  chickens, 

I  said, — 
Fifty     times     three-and-sixpence — Til    ask 

Brother  Ned. 

"  0,  but  stop, — three-and-sixpence  a  pair  I 

must  sell  'em : 
Well,  a  pair  is  a  couple,— now  then  let  us  tell 

'em; 
A  couple  in  fifty  will  go  (my  poor  brain  !) 
Why,  just  a  score  times,  and   five  pair  will 

remain. 

'•  Twenty  five  pair  of  fowls — now  how  tire- 
some it  is 
That  I  can't  reckon  up  so  much  money  as 

this ! 
Well,  there's  no  use  in  trying,  so  let's  give  a 

guess, — 
I'll  say  twenty  pounds,  and  it  can't  be  no  less. 


"  Twenty  pounds,  I  am  certain,  will  buy  me 

a  cow, 
Thirty  geese,  and  two  turkeys, — eight  pigs 

and  a  sow  ; 
Now  if  these  turn  out  well,  at  the  end  of  the 

year, 
I  shall  fill  both  my  pockets  with  guineas,  'tii 

clear." 

Forgetting  her  burden,  when   this  she  had 

said, 
The  maid  superciliously  tossed  up  her  head  ; 
When,  alas  for  her  prospects  !  her  milk-pail 

descended. 
And  so  all  her  schemes  for  the  future  were 

ended. 


This  moral,  I  think,  may  be  safely  attached  ; 
"  Reckon  not  on  your  chickens  before  they 
are  hatched." 


TBU  WATER-MILL. 


oflio 


D.    C.   M  CALLUM. 


! '  listen  to  the  water-mill,  through 
all  the  live-long  day, 
fQo  As  the  clicking  of  the  wheels  wears 
'  *»  hour  by  hour  away  ; 

How   languidly   the    autumn    wind 
doth  stir  the  withered  leaves. 
As  on  the  fields  the  reapers  sing,  while  bind- 
ing up  the  sheaves ! 
A  solemn  proverb  strikes  my  mind,  and  as  a 

spell  is  cast, 
"  Tlie  mill  will  never  grind  again  with  water 
that  is  past." 

The  summer  winds  revive  no  more  leaves 
strewn  o'er  earth  and  main. 

The  sickle  never  more  will  reap  the  yellow 
garnered  grain ; 

The  rippling  stream  flowt  ever  on,  aye  tran- 
quil, deep  and  still, 

But  never  glidcth  back  again  to  busy  water- 
mill. 

The  Bolomn  proverb  Bpeaks  to  all,  with 
meaning  deep  and  va«t, 

"  The  mill  will  never  grind  again  with  water 
that  is  past." 


Oh  !  clasp  the  proverb  to  thy  soul,  dear  loving 
heart  and  true, 

For  golden  years  are  fleeting  by,  and  youth 
is  passing  too ; 

Ah !  learn  to  make  the  most  of  life,  nor  lose 
one  happy  day. 

For  time  will  ne'er  return  sweet  joys 
neglected,  thrown  away ; 

Nor  leave  one  tender  word  unsaid,  thy  kind- 
ness sow  broadcast — 

"  The  mill  will  never  grind  again  witli  water 
that  is  past." 

Oh !    the    wasted    hours    of    life,    that   have 

swiftly  drifted  by, 
Alas!  the  good  we  might  have  done,  all  gone 

without  a  sigh  ; 
Love  that  wo  might  once  have  saved   by  a 

single  ki'idly  word, 
Thoughts    conceived   but    ne'er    cxprossGd, 

perishing  unpenned,  unheard. 
Oh !    take   ilio   lesson    to   thy   soul,    forover 

clivsp  it  fast, 
"The  mill  will  never  grind  again  with  water 

that  is  past." 


TRAMP,  TRAMP,  TRAMP. 


201 


Work  on  while  yet  the  sun  doth  shine,  thon 

man  of  strength  and  will, 
The  streamlet  ne'er   doth   useless   glide   by 

clicking  water-mill ; 
Nor   wait   until    to-morrow's    light    beams 

brightly  on  thy  way. 
For  all  that  thou  canst  call  thine  own,  lies 

in  the  phrase  "  to-day  :" 
Possessions,    power,  and    blooming    health, 

must  all  be  lost  at  last — 
"  The  mill  will  never  grind  again  with  water 

that  is  past." 


Oh !   love  thy  God  and  fellow-man,  thyself 

consider  last, 
For  come  it  will  when  thou  must  scan  dark 

errors  of  the  past ; 
Soon  will  this  fight  of  life  be  o'er,  and  earth 

recede  from  view, 
And  heaven  in  all  its  glory  shine  where  all 

is  pure  and  true, 
Ah  !  then  thou'lt  see  more  clearly  still  the 

proverb  deep  and  vast, 


THE    STATER-MILL. 


The  mill  will  never  grind  again  with  watei 
that  is  past." 


TRAMP,  TRAMP,  TRAMP. 


J.    G.    HOLLAND. 


|||ipRAMP,  tramp,  tramp,  the  boys  are  marching;  how  many  of  them? 
^1^  Sixty  tlioiLsand !  Sixty  full  regiments,  every  man  of  which  will, 
^^^  before  twelve  months  shall  have  completed  their  course,  lie  down 
in  the  grave  of  a  drunkard !  Every  year  during  the  past  decade 
has  witnessed  the  same  sacrifice ;  and  sixty  regiments  stand  behind 
this  army  ready  to  take  its  place.  It  is  to  be  recruited  from  our  children 
and  our  children's  children.  Tramp,  tramp,  tramp — the  sounds  come  to 
us  in  the  echoes  of  the  army  just  expired ;  tramp,  tramp,  tramp — the 
earth  shakes  with  the  tread  of  the  host  now  passing ;  tramp,  tramp, 
tramp — comes  to  us  from  the  camp  of  the  recruits.  A  great  tide  of  life 
flows  resistlessly  to  its  death.  "What  in  God's  name  are  they  fighting  for  ? 
The  privilege  of  pleasing  an  appetite,  of  conforming  to  a  social  usage,  of 
filling  sixty  thousand  homes  with  shame  and  sorrow,  of  loading  the  public 
with  the  burden  of  pauperism,  of  crowding  our  prison-houses  with  felons, 
of  detracting  from  the  productive  industries  of  the  country,  of  ruining  for- 


202  TEAMP.  TRAMP,  TRAMP. 

tunes  and   breaking  hopes,  of  breeding  disease  and  wretchedness,  of  de^ 
stroying  both  body  and  soul  in  hell  before  their  time. 

The  prosperity  of  the  Hquor  interest,  covering  every  department  of  it, 
iepends  entirely  on  the  maintenance  of  this  army.  It  cannot  live  without 
it.  It  never  did  Hve  without  it.  So  long  as  the  liquor  interest  maintains 
its  present  prosperous  condition,  it  will  cost  America  the  sacrifice 
of  sixty  thousand  men  every  year.  The  effect  is  inseparable  from  the 
cause.  The  cost  to  the  country  of  the  liquor  traffic  is  a  sum  so  stu- 
pendous that  any  figures  which  we  should  dare  to  give  would  convict 
us  of  trifling.  The  amount  of  life  absolutely  destroyed,  the  amount 
of  industry  sacrificed,  the  amount  of  bread  transformed  into  poison, 
the  shame,  the  unavailing  sorrow,  the  crime,  the  poverty,  the  pauperism, 
the  brutality,  the  wild  waste  of  vital  and  financial  resources,  make 
an  aggregate  so  vast — so  incalculably  vast, — that  the  only  wonder  is  that 
the  American  people  do  not  rise  as  one  man  and  declare  that  this  great 
curse  shall  exist  no  longer. 

A  hue-and-cry  is  raised  about  woman-suffrage,  as  if  any  wrong  whiclj 
may  be  involved  in  woman's  lack  of  the  suffrage  could  be  compared  to  tha 
wrongs  attached  to  the  liquor  interest. 

Does  any  sane  woman  doubt  that  women  are  suflering  a  thousand 
times  more  from  rum  than  from  any  political  disability  ? 

The  truth  is  that  there  is  no  question  before  the  American  people 
to-day  that  l^egins  to  match  in  importance  the  temperance  question.  The 
question  of  American  slavery  was  never  anything  but  a  baby  by  the  side 
of  this  ;  and  we  prophesy  that  within  ten  years,  if  not  within  five,  the 
whole  country  will  be  awake  to  it,  and  divided  upon  it.  The  organizations 
of  the  liquor  interest,  the  vast  funds  at  its  command,  the  universal  feeling 
among  those  whose  business  is  pitted  against  the  national  prosperity  and 
the  public  morals— these  are  enough  to  show  that,  upon  one  side  of  this 
matter,  at  least,  the  present  condition  of  things  and  the  social  and  political 
questions  that  lie  in  the  immediate  future  arc  apprehended.  The  liquor 
mterest  knows  there  is  to  be  a  great  struggle  and  is  preparing  to  meet  it. 
People  both  in  this  country  and  in  Great  Britain  are  beginning  to  see  the 
enormity  of  this  business — arc  beginning  to  realize  that  Christian  civiliza- 
tion is  actually  poisoned  at  its  fountain,  and  tliut  there  can  \n)  no  purifica- 
tion of  it  until  the  source  of  the  poison  is  dried  u]). 

Temperance  laws  are  being  pa.ssed  by  the  various  LegislaturcH,  which 
they  must  sustain,  or  go  over,  soul  and  body,  to  the  liquor  interest  and 
influence.  Steps  are  being  taken  on  behalf  of  the  public  health,  moral.s, 
and  prosperity,  which  they  must  aj>provc  by  voice  and  act,  or  they  must 


ELEGY  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 


203 


consent  to  be  left  behind  and  left  out.  There  can  bo  no  concession  and 
no  compromise  on  the  part  of  temperance  men,  and  no  quarter  to  the  foe. 
The  great  curse  of  our  country  and  our  race  must  be  destroyed. 

Meantime,  the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  sounds  on, — the  tramp  of  sixty 
thousand  yearly  victims.  Some  are  besotted  and  stupid,  some  are  wild 
with  hilarity  and  dance  along  the  dusty  way,  some  reel  along  in  pitiful 
weakness,  some  wreak  their  mad  and  murderous  impulses  on  one  another, 
or  on  the  helpless  women  and  children  whose  destinies  are  united  to  theirs, 
some  stop  in  wayside  debaucheries  and  infamies  for  a  moment,  some  go 
bound  in  chains  from  which  they  seek  in  vain  to  wrench  their  bleeding 
wrists,  and  all  are  poisoned  in  body  and  soul,  and  all  are  doomed  to  death. 


■'^-^K^' 


EXTRACT  FROM  GRAY'S  ELEGY. 


THOMAS   GRAY. 


ULL  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
gjip       The   dark,   unfathonied    caves    of 
ocean  bear; 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush 
v;nseen, 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 
14 


Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntlssf 

breast, 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood; 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  hf^re,  may  rest; 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  ot  hia  country's 

blood. 


204 


ELEGY  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 


The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  com- 
mand, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade ;  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their    crimes 
confined ; 
Forbade  to    wade   through   slaughter  to   a 
throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to 
hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 

With  incense  kindled  at  the  muse's  flame. 

Far    from    the   mad'ning   crowd's    ignoble 
strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 
Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept    the    noiseless    tenor  of  their 
way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh. 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture 
decked, 
implores  \he  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlet- 
tered muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews. 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey. 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor    cast  one     longing,    lingering     look 
behind? 

On  Bome  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 
Some  piou,^  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

K'en   from    the   tomb    the   voice   of  Nature 
cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 


For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead, 
Dost  in   these  lines  their  artless  tale  re- 
late; 

If  chance,  bj'-  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate. 

Haply  some  hoary -headed  swain  may  say  :— 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of 
dawn. 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so 


His  listless  length    at    noontide  would    he 
stretch. 
And  pore  upon   the   brook   that   babbles 

by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn. 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would 

rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless 

love. 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed 
hill. 
Along  the   heath,  and  near  his  favorite 
tree; 
Another  came, — nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was 
he; 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw 
him  borne ; — 
Approadi  and  read  (for  thou  canst  rem!)  tlie 
lay 
Graved  on   the    stone  beneath  yon  aged 
thorn." 

TliK    KriTAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  tliolap  of  earth 
A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  ; 

Fair    science    frowned    not    on    liis    liunil>lr 
hirtli. 
And  iMi'lan'huly  marked  liiiu  for  her  ywi» 


THE  ANGLER. 


205 


Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send ; 
He  gave  to  misery  (all  lie  had)  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  heaven  ('twas  all  he 
wished)  a  friend. 


No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or   draw  his  frailties  from    their    dread 
abode, — 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIMS. 


FELICIA   HEMANS. 


sfes., 


^prw?HE  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
i/jLv;       On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 
Y?,^4-i  ^"^^  ^^  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
^%  Their  giant  branches  tossed  ; 

I        And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 
The  hills  and  waters  o'er. 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their 
ba_k 
On  the  w -J  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came ; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums. 

And  the  trumpet  that  F/lngs  of  fame  ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come. 

In  silence  and  in  fear  ; — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

A.midst  the  storm  they  sang, 
And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea ; 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 


The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared,— 

This  was  their  welcome  home. 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim-band : 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  j  ewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground. 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod  ; 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they 
found, — 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 


TEE  ANGLER. 


CHALKHILL. 


THE  gallant  fisher's  life. 
It  is  the  best  of  any ! 
'Tis  full  of  pleasure,  void  of  strife! 
And  'tis  beloved  by  many ; 
Other  joys 
Are  but  toys; 


Only  this 
Lawful  is ; 
For  our  skill 
Breeds  no  ill, 
But  content  and  pleasure. 


206 


THE  ANGLEK. 


In  a  morning,  up  we  rise, 
Ere  Aurora's  peeping ; 

Vrink  a  cup  to  wash  our  eyes, 
Leave  the  sluggard  sleeping ; 
Then  we  go 


When  we  please  to  walk  atwoftd 

For  our  recreation, 
In  the  fields  is  our  abode, 

Full  of  delectation. 

Where,  in  a  brook. 


I')  tin-  gallant  fishf-r'n  life 
It  JH  the  best  of  any  !" 


To  and  fro, 
With  our  knacks 
At  our  backn, 
To  Hudi  HtiHiarns 
Ah  the  Thames, 
If  we  have  the  leiHure. 


Willi  II  liofik, — 
Or  a  lake,— 
Fish  we  take ; 
Thero  we  sit, 
For  a  hit, 
Till  wc  fish  entangle. 


IMMORTALITY. 


207 


We  have  gentles  in  a  horn, 

Roach  or  dace. 

We  have  paste  and  worms  too ; 

We  do  chase. 

We  can  watch  botli  night  and  morn, 

Bleak  or  g-^dgeon, 

Suffer  rain  and  storms  too ; 

Without  grudging; 

None  do  here 

We  are  still  conter 'od. 

Use  to  swear: 

Oaths  do  fray 
Fish  away  ; 
We  sit  still, 
Watch  our  quill : 
Fishers  must  not  wrangle. 

Or  we  sometimes  pass  an  hour 
Under  a  green  willow, 

That  defends  us  from  a  sho  ,ver 
Making  earth  our  pillow  ; 
Where  we  may 

If  the  sun's  excessive  heat 

Think  and  pray. 

Make  our  bodies  swelter, 

Before  death 

To  an  osier  hedge  we  get, 

Stops  our  breath ; 

For  a  friendly  shelter ; 

Other  joj-s 

Where,  in  a  dike, 

Are  but  toys. 

Perch  or  pike, 

And  to  be  lamented. 

IMMORTALITY. 


MASSILLON. 


H^F  we  wholly  perish  with  the  body,  what  an  imposture  is  this  whol'9 
^1^     system  of  laws,  manners,  and  usages,  on  which  human   society  m 

f  founded !  If  we  wholly  perish  with  the  body,  these  maxims  of 
charity,  patience,  justice,  honor,  gratitude,  and  friendship,  v;hich 
I  sages  have  taught  and  good  men  have  practised,  what  are  they  but 
1  empty  words  possessing  no  real  and  binding  efficacy?  Why  should 
we  heed  them,  if  in  this  life  only  we  have  hope?  Speak  not  of  duty. 
What  can  we  owe  to  the  dead,  to  the  living,  to  ourselves,  if  all  are  or 
will  he,  nothing?  Who  shall  dictate  our  duty,  if  not  our  own  pleasures,^ 
If  not  our  own  passions  ?  Speak  not  of  morality.  It  is  a  mere  chimera, 
a  bugbear  of  human  invention,  if  retribution  terminate  with  the  grave. 

If  we  must  wholly  perish,  what  to  us  are  the  sweet  ties  of  kindred  ? 
What  the  tender  names  of  parent,  child,  sister,  brother,  husband,  wife,  or 
friend  ?  The  characters  of  a  drama  are  not  more  illusive.  We  have  no 
ancestors,  no  descendants ;  since  succession  cannot  be  predicated  of  nothing' 
ness.  Would  we  honor  the  illustrious  dead  ?  How  absurd  to  honor  thai 
which  has  no  existence !  Would  we  take  thought  for  posterity  ?  How 
frivolous  to  concern  ourselves  for  those  whose  end,  like  our  own,  must  soon 
be  annihilation  !  Have  we  made  a  promise  ?  How  can  it  bind  nothing  to 
nothing?     Perjury  is  but  a  jest.     The  last  injunctions  of  the  dying,  what 


208  THE  TEMPEST. 


sanctity  have  they,  more  than  the  last  sound  of  a  chord  that  is  snapped,  of 
an  instrument  that  is  broken  ? 

To  sum  up  all  :  If  we  must  wholly  perish,  then  is  obedience  to  the  laws 
but  an  insane  servitude;  rulers  and  magistrates  are  but  the  phantoms 
which  popular  imbecility  has  raised  up ;  justice  is  an  unwarrantable  in- 
fringement upon  the  liberty  of  men, — an  imposition,  a  usurpation ;  the  law 
of  marriage  is  a  vain  scruple;  modesty  a  prejudice;  honor  and  probity, 
Buch  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of;  and  incests,  murders,  parricides,  the 
most  heartless  cruelties  and  the  blackest  crimes,  are  but  the  legitimate 
sports  of  man's  irresponsible  nature ;  while  the  harsh  epithets  attached  to 
them  are  merely  such  as  the  policy  of  legislators  has  invented,  and  imposed 
upon  the  credulity  of  the  people. 

Here  is  the  issue  to  which  the  vaunted  philosophy  of  unbelievers  must 
inevitably  lead.  Here  is  that  social  felicity,  that  sway  of  reason,  that 
emancipation  from  ei-ror,  of  which  they  eternally  prate,  as  the  fruit  of 
their  doctrines.  Accept  their  maxims,  and  the  whole  world  falls  back  into 
a  frightful  chaos ;  and  all  the  relations  of  life  are  confounded;  and  all  ideas 
of  vice  and  virtue  are  reversed ;  and  the  most  inviolable  laws  of  society 
vanish ;  and  all  moral  discipline  perishes ;  and  the  government  of  states 
and  nations  has  no  longer  any  cement  to  uphold  it ;  and  all  the  harmony 
of  the  body  politic  becomes  discord  ;  and  the  human  race  is  no  more  than 
an  assemblage  of  reckless  barbarians,  shameless,  remorseless,  brutal,  de- 
naturalized, with  no  other  law  than  force,  no  other  check  than  passion,  no 
other  bond  than  irreligion,  no  other  God  than  self!  Such  would  be  the 
world  which  impiety  would  make.  Such  would  be  this  world,  were  a  belief 
in  God  and  immortality  to  die  out  of  the  human  heart. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


%-"^' 
^ 


J.  T.  FIELDS. 


wore  crowded  in  the  cabin, 
Not  a  Roul  would  daro  to  fileej), — 
It  was  midnight  on  the  waters 


>.  1  .,X.        And  a  Htorrn  upon  the  deep. 

'T  is  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  he  shattered  by  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "  Cut  away  the  mast !" 


So  wo  sluiddorod  thorn  in  pilenco, — 
For  the  Htoutest  held  his  hrciitli, 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 
Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers, 

"  We  are  lost!"  the  captain  shouted 
As  ho  staggered  down  (in!  stairs. 


OLD-SCHOOL  PUNISHMENT. 


209 


But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 
As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 

"  la  n't  God  upon  the  ocean 
Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ?" 


Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer, 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor 
When  the  morn  was  shining  cie«r. 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


>QR  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forget- 
ting ; 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's 

star. 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  Cometh  from  afar. 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home. 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy  ; 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  fiows,- 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy. 
The  youth  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  : 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Oh  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not,  indeed. 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest, — 
Delight  and  libertv,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 


With  new-fledged  hope  blill  fluttering  in  his 
breast, — 
Not  for  these  I  j  aise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinaic  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings, 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  whi'  h  our  mortal  saturd 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised, — 
But  ""or  those  first  a  (lections. 
Those  shadowy  lenillections. 
Which,  be  they  what  iliey  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain-ligbi  of  all  our  day 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing. 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  :  truths  that  wake. 

To  perish  never, — 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, — 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither. 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore. 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermora 


OLD-SCHOOL  PUNISHMENT. 


IfMLD  Master  Brown  brought  his  ferule 
down, 
And  his  face   looked  angry  and 
red. 


"  Go,  seat  j'ou  there,  now,  Anthony  Blsdr, 
Along  with  the  girls,"  he  said. 

Then  Anthony  Blair,  with  a  mortified  air 
With  bis  head  down  on  his  breast. 


210 


DRIFTING. 


Took  his  penitent  seat  by  the  maiden  sweet 

That  he  loved,  of  all,  the  best. 
And    Anthony   Blair,  seemed    whimpering 
there, 


But  the  rogue  only  made  believe ; 
For  he  peeped  at  the  girls  with  the  beautLfd 
curls, 
And  ogled  them  over  his  sleeve. 


DRIFTING. 


T.  BUCHANAN   EEAD. 


qY  soul  to-day 
;3     Is  far  away. 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay  ; 
My  winged  boat, 
A  bird  afloat. 
Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote  : — 

Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw. 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim, 

The  mountains  swim ; 
While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim, 

With  outstretched  hands. 

The  gray  smoke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  liquid  miles; 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits, 

II'T  sa{ii)hire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  heed  not,  if 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  Kwift  or  .slow  from  did  to  clifT; — 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lie.i 
Under  tlie  walls  of  Paradi.se. 

Tinder  tlic  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  closd  upon  this  liquid  nky. 


The  day,  so  mild. 

Is  Heaven's  own  child. 
With  earth  and  ocean  reconciled  \-^ 

The  airs  I  feel 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail, 

A  joy  intense. 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Where  summer  sings  and  never  dies, — 

O'erveiled  with  vines. 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Her  children,  hid 

The  clifft  amid. 
Are  gamboling  with  tlie  gamboling  kid; 

Or  down  the  walls. 

With  tii)sy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher's  cliild, 

With  tresses  wild. 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 

With  glowing  lips 

Sings  as  she  skips, 
Or  gazes  at  the  far  ofl"  ships. 

Yon  deep  bark  goon 

WlnTi^  Iriirtic  blows. 
From  hinds  of  sun  to  lands  of  unows;-* 

This  happier  ono, 

Its  course  is  run 
I'Vnin  hinds  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 


EUROPEAN  GUIDES. 


211 


0  happy  ship, 

No  more,  no  more 

To  rise  and  dip, 

The  worldly  shore 

With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip ! 

Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar  f 

0  happy  crew, 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  heart  with  you 

My  spirit  lies 

Sftils,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew! 

Under  the  walls  of  Paradise  1 

EUROPEAN  GUIDES. 


S.  L.  CLEMENS. 


IPIIlJEOPEAISr  guides  know  about  enough  English  to  tangle  everything 

ii^    up  so  that  a  man  can  make  neither  head  nor  tail  of  it.    Thev  know 

Jk      their  story  by  heart, — the  history  of  every  statue,  painting,  catlie- 

^        dra],  or  other  wonder  they  show  you.     They  know  it  and  tell  it 

«         as  a  parrot  would, — and  if  you  interrupt,  and  throw  them  off  the 

track,  they  have  to  go  back  and  begin  over  again.     All  their  lives  long  they 

are  employed  in  showing  strange  things  to  foreigners  and  listening  to  their 

bursts  of  admiration. 

It  is  human  nature  to  take  delight  in  exciting  admiration.  It  is  what 
prompts  children  to  say  "smart "  things,  and  do  absurd  ones,  and  in  other 
ways  "  show  off"  when  company  is  present.  It  is  what  makes  gossips  turn 
out  in  rain  and  storm  to  go  and  be  the  first  to  tell  a  startling  bit  of  news. 
Think,  then,  what  a  passion  it  becomes  with  a  guide,  whose  privilege  it  is, 
every  day,  to  show  to  strangers  wonders  that  throw  them  into  perfect 
testacies  of  admiration  !  He  gets  so  that  he  could  not  by  any  possibility 
live  in  a  soberer  atmosphere. 

After  we  discovered  this,  we  never  went  into  ecstacies  any  more, — we 
never  admired  anything, — we  never  showed  any  but  impassible  faces  and 
stupid  indifference  in  the  face  of  the  sublimest  wonders  a  guide  had  to  dis- 
play. We  had  found  their  weak  point.  We  have  made  good  use  of  it 
ever  since.  We  have  made  some  of  those  people  savage,  at  times,  but  we, 
have  never  lost  our  serenity. 

The  doctor  asks  the  questions  generally,  because  he  can  keep  hi* 
countenance,  and  look  more  like  an  inspired  idiot,  and  throw  more  imbe- 
cility into  the  tone  of  his  voice  than  any  man  that  lives.  It  comes  natural 
to  him. 

The  guides  in  Genoa  are  delighted  to  secure  an  American  party, 
because  Americans  so  much  wonder,  and  deal  so  much  in  sentiment  and 
emotion  before  any  relic  of  Columbus.     Our  guide  there  fidgeted  about  aa 


^12  EUROPEAN  GUIDES. 


if  he  had  swallowed  a  spring  mattress.  He  was  full  of  animation, — full  ol 
impatience.     He  said  : — 

"  Come  wis  me,  genteelmen  ! — come  !  I  show  you  ze  letter  writing 
by  Christopher  Colombo! — write  it  himself! — write  it  wis  his  own  hand! 
—come  !" 

He  took  us  to  the  municipal  palace.  After  much  impressive  fumbling 
of  keys  and  opening  of  locks,  the  stained  and  aged  document  was  spread 
before  us.  The  guide's  eyes  sparkled.  He  danced  about  us  and  tapped 
the  parchment  with  his  finger  : — 

"What  I  tell  you,  genteelmen !  Is  it  not  so  ?  See !  handwriting 
Christopher  Colombo  ! — write  it  himself!" 

We  looked  indifferent, — unconcerned.  The  doctor  examined  the  docu- 
ment very  deliberately,  during  a  painful  pause.  Then  he  said,  without  any 
.show  of  interest, — 

"Ah, — Ferguson, — what — what  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  the 
party  who  wrote  this  ?" 

"  Christopher  Colombo !  ze  great  Christopher  Colombo  !" 

Another  deliberate  examination. 

"  Ah, — did  he  write  it  himself,  or, — or  how  ?" 

"  He  write  it  himself ! — Christopher  Colombo  !  he's  own  handwriting, 
write  by  himself!" 

Then  the  doctor  laid  the  document  down  and  said, — "  Why,  I  have  seen 
boys  in  America  only  fourteen  years  old  that  could  write  better  than  that." 

"  But  zis  is  ze  great  Christo— ■" 

"  I  don't  care  who  it  is !  It's  the  worst  writing  I  ever  saw.  Now 
you  mustn't  think  you  can  impose  on  us  because  we  are  strangers.  We  are 
not  fools,  by  a  good  deal.  If  you  have  got  any  specimens  of  penmanshi[> 
«f  real  merit,  trot  them  out ! — and  if  you  haven't,  drive  on  !" 

We  drove  on.  The  guide  was  considerably  shaken  up,  but  he  made 
one  more  venture.  He  had  something  which  he  thought  wouki  overcome 
us.     He  said, — 

"  Ah,  genteelmen,  you  come  wis  us  I  I  show  you  beautiful,  oh,  mag- 
nificent l)U.st  Christopher  Colombo  I — splendid,  grand,  magnificent!" 

He  brought  us  before  the  beautiful  bust, — for  it  vas  iKviutiful, — and 
•prang  back  and  struck  an  attitude  : — 

"  Ah,  look,  genteelmen  ! — beautiful,  grand, — bust  Christopher  Co- 
Jcmbo! — beautiful  bust,  beautiful  pedestal  !" 

The  doctor  put  up  his  eye-glass, — procured  for  such  occ<asions  :— 

"  Ah, — wliat  did  you  say  this  gentleman's  name  was?" 

"  Christopher  Colombo  I  ze  great  Christopher  Colombo  !" 


EUROPEAN  GUIDES.  213 


"Christopher  Colombo, — the  great  Christopher  Colombo.  Well,  what 
aid  he  do  ?" 

"  Discover  America ! — discover  America,  oh,  ze  devil !" 

"Discover  America?  No, — that  statement  will  hardly  wash.  We 
are  just  from  America  ourselves.  We  heard  nothing  about  it.  Christo- 
pher Colombo, — pleasant  name, — is — is  he  dead  ?" 

"  Oh,  corpo  di  Baccho  ! — three  hundred  year  !" 

"  What  did  he  die  of  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.     I  cannot  tell," 

"  Small-pox,  think  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  genteelmen, — I  do  not  know  what  he  die  of." 

"  Measles,  likely  ?" 

"  Maybe, — maybe.     I  do  not  know, — I  think  he  die  of  something." 

"  Parents  living  ?" 

"  Im-posseeble ! 

"  Ah, — which  is  the  bust  and  which  is  the  pedestal  ?" 

"  Santa  Maria  ! — zis  ze  bust ! — zis  ze  pedestal !" 

"Ah,  I  see,  I  see, — happy  combination, — very  happy  combination 
indeed.     Is — is  this  the  first  time  this  gentleman  was  ever  on  a  bust  ?" 

That  joke  was  lost  on  the  foreigner, — guides  cannot  master  the  sub- 
tleties of  the  American  joke. 

We  have  made  it  interesting  for  this  Roman  guide.  Yesterday 
we  spent  three  or  four  hours  in  the  Vatican  again,  that  wonderful 
world  of  curiosities.  We  came  very  near  expressing  interest  sometimes, 
even  admiration.  It  was  hard  to  keep  from  it.  We  succeeded,  though. 
Nobody  else  ever  did,  in  the  Vatican  museums.  The  guide  was  bewildered, 
nonplussed.  He  walked  his  legs  off,  nearly,  hunting  up  extraordinary 
things,  and  exhausted  all  his  ingenuity  on  us,  but  it  was  a  failure ;  we 
never  showed  any  interest  in  anything.  He  had  reserved  what  he  con- 
sidered to  be  his  greatest  wonder  till  the  last, — a  royal  Egyptian  mummy, 
the  best  preserved  in  the  world,  perhaps.  He  took  us  there.  He  felt  so 
sure,  this  time,  that  some  of  his  old  enthusiasm  came  back  to  him  : — 

"  See,  genteelmen ! — Mummy  !     Mummy !" 

The  eye-glass  came  up  as  calmly,  as  deliberately  as  ever. 

"  Ah, — Ferguson, — what  did  I  understand  you  to  say  the  gentleman's 
name  was?" 

"  Name ? — he  got  no  name ! — mummy  ! — 'Gyptian  mummy!" 

"  Yes,  yes.     Born  here  ?" 

"  No.     'Gyptian  mummy." 

"  Ah,  just  so.     Frenchman,  I  presume  ?" 


2U 


THANATOPSIS. 


"No! — 7iot  Frenchman,  not  Eoman! — born  in  Egypta  !" 

"  Born  in  Egypta.  Never  lieard  of  Egypta  before.  Foreign  locality, 
likely.  Mummy, — mummy.  How  calm  lie  is,  how  seK-possessed  !  Is — 
ah  ! — is  he  dead  ?" 

"  Oh,  saere  bleuf  been  dead  three  thousan'  year  !" 

The  doctor  turned  on  him  savagely : — 

"  Here,  now,  what  do  you  mean  by  such  conduct  as  this  ?  Playing  us 
for  Chinamen  because  we  are  strangers  and  trying  to  learn !  Trying  to 
impose  your  vile,  second-hand  carcasses  on  its  !  Thunder  and  lightning ! 
I've  a  mind  to — to — if  you've  got  a  nice  fresh  corpse,  fetch  him  out ! — or, 
by  George,  we'll  brain  you!" 

We  make  it  exceedingly  interesting  for  this  Frenchman.  However, 
he  has  paid  us  back,  partly,  without  knowing  it.  He  came  to  the  hotel 
this  morning  to  ask  if  we  were  up,  and  he  endeavored,  as  well  as  he  could 
to  describe  us,  so  that  the  landlord  would  know  which  persons  he  meant. 
He  finished  with  the  casual  remark  that  we  were  lunatics.  The  observa- 
tion was  so  innocent  and  so  honest  that  it  amounted  to  a  very  good  thing 
for  a  guide  to  say. 

Our  Pioman  Ferguson  is  the  most  patient,  unsuspecting,  long-suffering, 
Bubj  ect  we  have  had  yet.  We  shall  be  sorry  to  part  with  him.  We  have 
enjoyed  his  society  very  much.  We  trust  he  has  enjoyed  ours,  but  we  are 
harassed  with  doubts. 


THANATOPSIS. 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 


i- 


>)  him,  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature, 

hoM.'j 
i' Communion  with  her  visihle  forms, 
she  speaks 
^  A  various  language:  for   his  gayer 

•f  hours 

J  She  has  a  voice  of  gladness    and  a 

smile 
And  f!loquf;nce  of  beauty  ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  muHings  with  a  mild 
Ad  1  gentle  sympathy,  that  sU-als  away 
Th-ir  sharpncHS,  ere  he   is  aware.       When 

thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
C  "'-.T  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 


Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless    darkness,  and    the    narrow 

houHC, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart. 
Go  forth  under  the  open  sky  and  list 
To    Nature's     teachings,    wliilo    from     all 

around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a  still  voice, — Yet  a  few  days,  and 

thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  cournc  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground. 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  m»taj 

tears. 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  ezU'. 


•  To  him,  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 
Communioa  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
4.  various  laneuaae." 


TIIANATOPSTS. 


215 


Thy    image.      Earth,    that   nourished  thee, 

shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again ; 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements ; 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock. 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,   which  the   rude 

swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The 

oak 


THE    VENERABLE    WOODS. 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy 

mould. 
Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire    alone, — nor  couldst  thou 

wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.      Thou   shalt  lie 

down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world, — with 

king.s, 
The  powerful  of  the    earth, — the  wise,  the 


the 


Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.  The  hills. 
Rock-ribbed,   and    ancient  as   the  sun ; 

vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 
The  venerable  woods;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks. 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured 

round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
15 


Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the   great  tomb   of  man !      The  golden 

sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death. 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that 

tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings. — Yet  the  dead  are 

there ! 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have   laid  them 

down 
In   their  last  sleep, — the   dead  reign   there 

alone ! 
So  shalt  thou  rest ;  and  what  if  thou  with 

draw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?     The  gay  wi«l 

laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of 

care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will   A\. 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all    these    i^\u. 

leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall 

come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long 

train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men — 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who 

goes 
In  the  full  strength   of  years,  matron  and 

maid. 
The  bowed  with  age,  the  infant  in  the  smilei 
And  beauty  of  its  innocent  age  cut  ofl:" — 
Shall  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side 
By   those   who  in  their   turn    shall    follow 

them. 

So  live  that  when  thy  summons  comes  t« 
join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall 

take 
His  chamber  in  the -silent  halls  of  deatn, 


216 


THE  PAUPER'S  DEATH-BED. 


Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and 
soothed 


By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  gravf. 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


THE  GOUTY  MERCHANT  AND  THE  STRANGEB. 


HORACE   SMITH. 


^^N  Broad  Street  buildings  (on  a  winter 

^^  Snug  by  his  parlor  fire,  a  gouty  wight 
dlib   Sat  all  alone,  with  one  hand  rubbing 
k     His  feet  rolled  up  in  fleecy  hose, 
J      With  t'other  he'd  beneath  his  nose 
The     Public     Ledger,     in     whose    columns 
grubbing. 
He  noted  all  the  sales  of  hops. 
Ships,  shops,  and  slops  ; 
Gum,  gaUs,  and  groceries  ;  ginger,  gin, 
Tar,  tallow,  turmeric,  turpentine,  and  tin ; 
WHien  lo!  a  decent  personage  in  black. 
Entered  and  most  politely  said — 

"  Your  footman,  sir,  has  gone  his  nightly 

track 
To  the  King's  Head, 
And  left  your  door  ajar,  which  I 
Observed  in  passing  by ; 

And  thought  it  neighborly  to  give  you 
notice." 
"Ten  thoasand    thanks!"  the    gouty   man 

replied; 
"  You  see,  good  sir,  how  to  my  chair   I'm 
tied ; — 


"  Ten  thousand  thanks  how  very  few  do  ge^ 
In  time  of  danger, 

Such  kind  attention  from  a  stranger ! 
Assuredly,  that  fellow's  throat  is 
Doomed  to  a  final  drop  at  Newgate ; 
He  knows,  too,  (the  unconscionable  elf,) 
That  there's   no  soul  at  home  except  my 
self." 

"Indeed,"    replied  the   stranger   (looking 
grave,) 

"  Then  he's  a  double  knave: 
He  knows  that  rogues  and  thieves  by  scorea 
Nightly  beset  unguarded  doors ; 
And  see,  how  easily  might  one 

Of  these  domestic  foes. 

Even  beneath  your  very  nose. 
Perform  his  knavish  tricks: 
Enter  your  room  as  I  have  done, 
Blow  out  your  candles — thus — and  thus — 
Pocket  your  silver  candlesticks  : 

And — walk  off — thus  " — 
So  said,  so  done ;  he  made  no  more  remark 

Nor  waited  for  replies. 

But  marched  off  with  his  prize. 
Leaving  the  gouty  merchant  in  the  dark. 


! 


THE  PAUPERS  DEATH-BET). 


MRS.  C.  B.  SOUTHEY. 


I:EAD  softly,  bow  tlio  head; 
In  reverent  silence  bow  ; 
No  passing  bell  doth  toll, 
Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Ih  pa-Hsing  now. 

Stranger !  however  great, 
With  lowly  reverence  bow ; 
There's  one  in  tliat  poor  slied, 
One  by  that  jialtry  bed, 
Oreat*-T  than  thou. 


Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 

Lo!  Death  doth  keeji  liis  slate, 

Enter — no  crowds  attend  ; 

Ent«r — no  guards  defend 
This  palace  gate. 

That  pavement,  damp  and  lold, 

No  smiling  courtiern  troad  ; 
One  silent  woman  stands. 
Lifting  with  meagre  liands 
A  dying  hoa<i 


MOUSE-HUNTING. 


217 


No  mingling  voices  sound — 

An  infant  wail  alone ; 
A  sob  suppressed — again 
That  short,  deep  gasp,  and  thea 

The  parting  groan. 

Oh,  change ! — Oh,  wondrous  change  !- 
Burst  are  the  prison  bars — 


This  moment  there,  so  low, 
So  agonized,  and  now 
Beyond  the  stars ! 

Oh,  change — stupendous  change  • 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod  1 
The  sun  eternal  breaks — 
The  new  immortal  wakes- 
Wakes  with  his  God  I 


MO  USE-HUNTING. 


B.  P.  SHILLABER. 


|T  was  midnight,  deep  and  still,  in  the  mansion  of  Mrs.  Partington,— as 
»  it  was,  very  generally,  about  town, — on  a  cold  night  in  March.  So 
)  profound  was  the  silence  that  it  awakened  Mrs.  P.,  and  she  raised 
herself  upon  her  elbow  to  listen.  No  sound  greeted  her  ears,  save 
the  tick  of  the  old  wooden  clock  in  the  next  room,  which  stood  there 
in  the  dark,  like  an  old  crone,  whispering  and  gibbering  to  itself. 
Mrs.  Partington  relapsed  beneath  the  folds  of  the  blankets,  and  had  one 
eye  again  well-coaxed  towards  the  realm  of  dreams,  while  the  other  was 
holding  by  a  very  frail  tenure  upon  the  world  of  reality,  when  her  ear  waa 
aaluted  by  the  nibble  of  a  mouse,  directly  beneath  her  chamber  window, 
and  the  mouse  was  evidently  gnawing  her  chamber  carpet. 

Now,  if  there  is  an  animal  in  the  catalogue  of  creation  that  she  dreads 
and  detests,  it  is  a  mouse ;  and  she  has  a  vague  and  indefinite  idea  that 
rats  and  mice  were  made  with  especial  regard  to  her  individual  torment. 
As  she  heard  the  sound  of  the  nibble  by  the  window,  she  arose  again  upon 
her  elbow,  and  cried  ''Shoo!  Shoo !" energeticsllj,  several  times.  The 
sound  ceased,  and  she  fondly  fancied  that  her  trouble  was  over.  Again 
she  laid  herself  away  as  carefully  as  she  would  have  lain  eggs  at  forty -five 
cents  a  dozen,  when— nibble,  nibble,  nibble  ! — she  once  more  heard  tho 
odious  sound  by  the  window.  "  Shoo  !"  cried  the  old  lady  again,  at  the 
same  time  hurling  her  shoe  at  the  spot  from  whence  the  sound  proceeded, 
where  the  little  midnight  marauder  was  carrying  on  his  depredations. 

A  light  burned  upon  the  hearth — she  couldn't  sleep  without  a  light,— 
and  she  strained  her  eyes  in  vain  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  tormentor  play- 
ing about  amid  the  shadows  of  the  room.  All  again  was  silent,  and  the 
clock,  giving  an  admonitory  tremble,  struck  twelve.  Midnight!  and  Mrs. 
Partington  counted  the  tintinabulous  knots  as  they  ran  ofi"  the  reel  of  Timei, 
with  a  saddened  heart. 


21S  MOUSE-HUNTING. 


Nibble,  nibble,  nibble  ! — again  that  sound.  The  old  lady  sighed  as  she 
hurled  the  other  shoe  at  her  invisible  annoyance.  It  was  all  without  avail, 
and  "shooing  "  was  bootless,  for  the  sound  came  again  to  her  wakeful  ear. 
At  this  point  her  patience  gave  out,  and,  conquering  her  dread  of  the  cold, 
she  ai'ose  and  opened  the  door  of  her  room  that  led  to  a  corridor,  when, 
taking  the  light  in  one  hand,  and  a  shoe  in  the  other,  she  made  the  circuit 
of  the  room,  and  explored  every  nook  and  cranny  in  which  a  mouse  could 
ensconse  himself.  She  looked  under  the  bed,  and  under  the  old  chest  oi 
drawers,  and  under  the  wash-stand,  and  "  shooed  "  until  she  could  "  shoo  " 
no  more. 

The  reader's  own  imagination,  if  he  has  an  imagination  skilled  in  limning, 
must  draw  the  picture  of  the  old  lady  while  upon  this  exploring  expedition, 
"  accoutred  as  she  was,"  in  search  of  the  ridiculous  mouse.  We  have  our 
own  opinion  upon  the  subject,  and  must  say, — with  all  due  deference  to 
the  years  and  virtues  of  Mrs.  P.,  and  with  all  regard  for  personal  attrac- 
tions veiy  striking  in  one  of  her  years, — we  should  judge  that  she  cut  a 
very  queer  figure,  indeed. 

Satisfying  herself  that  the  mouse  must  have  left  the  room,  she  closed 
the  door,  deposited  the  light  upon  the  hearth,  and  again  sought  repose. 
How  gratefully  a  warm  bed  feels,  when  exposure  to  the  night  air  has 
chilled  us,  as  we  crawl  to  its  enfolding  covert !  How  we  nestle  down,  like 
an  infant  by  its  mother's  breast,  and  own  no  joy  superior  to  that  we  feel, — 
coveting  no  regal  luxury  while  revelling  in  the  elysium  of  feathers !  So 
felt  Mrs.  P.,  as  she  again  ensconsed  herself  in  bed.  The  clock  in  the  next 
room  struck  one. 

She  was  again  near  the  attainment  of  the  state  when  dreams  are  rife, 
when,  close  by  her  chamber-door,  outside  she  heard  that  hateful  nibble 
renewed  which  had  marred  her  peace  before.  With  a  groan  she  arose,  and, 
seizing  her  lamp,  she  opened  the  door,  and  had  the  satisfaction  to  hear  the 
mou.se  drop,  step  by  step,  until  he  reached  the  floor  below.  Convinced  that 
•she  was  now  rid  of  him  for  the  night,  she  returned  to  bed,  and  ad- 
dressed herself  to  sleep.  The  room  grew  dim ;  in  the  weariness  of  her 
spirit,  the  chest  of  drawers  in  the  corner  was  fast  losing  its  identity  and 
becoming  something  else ;  in  a  moment  more — nibble,  nibble,  nibble!  agaie 
outside  of  the  chambor-door,  as  the  clock  in  the  next  room  struck  two. 

Anger,  disappointment,  desperation,  fired  her  mind  with  a  new  dctor- 
mination.  Once  more  she  arose,  but  tliis  time  she  j)ut  on  a  kIioc  ! — her 
dexter  shoe.  Ominous  movement !  It  is  said  that  when  a  woman  wets 
her  finger,  fleas  had  better  flee.  The  star  of  that  mouse's  destiny  was  set- 
ting, and  was  now  near  the  horizon.     She  opened  the  door  quickly,  and, 


DOING  GOOD,  TRUE  HAPPINESS.  219 

as  she  listened  a  moment,  she  heard  him  drop  again  from  stair  to  stair,  on 
a  speedy  passage  down. 

The  entry  below  was  closely  secured,  and  no  door  was  open  to  admit 
of  his  escape.  This  she  knew,  and  a  triumphant  gleam  shot  athwart  her 
features,  revealed  by  the  rays  of  the  lamp.  She  went  slowly  down  tlie 
stairs,  until  she  arrived  at  the  floor  below,  where,  snugly  in  a  corner,  with 
his  little  bead-lilie  black  eyes  looking  up  at  her  roguishly,  was  the  gnawer  of 
her  carpet,  and  the  annoyer  of  her  comfort.  She  moved  towards  him,  and 
he  not  coveting  the  closer  acquaintance,  darted  by  her.  She  pursued  him  to 
the  other  end  of  the  entry,  and  again  he  passed  by  her.  Again  and  again  she 
pursued  him,  with  no  better  success.  At  last,  when  in  most  doubt  as  to  which 
side  would  conquer.  Fortune  perched  upon  the  banister,  turned  the  scale  in 
favor  of  Mrs.  P.  The  mouse,  in  an  attempt  to  run  by  her,  presumed  too 
much  upon  former  success.  He  came  too  near  her  upraised  foot.  It  fell 
upon  his  musipilar  beauties,  like  an  avalanche  of  snow  upon  a  new  tile, 
and  he  was  dead  forever !  Mrs.  Partington  gazed  upon  him  as  he  lay 
before  her.  Though  she  was  glad  at  the  result,  she  could  but  sigh  at 
the  necessity  which  impelled  the  violence;  but  for  which  the  mouse  might 
have  long  continued  a  blessing  to  the  society  in  which  he  moved. 

Slowly  and  sadly  she  marched  up  stairs, 

With  her  shoe  all  sullied  and  gory  ; 
And  the  watch,  who  saw't  through  the  front  door  squares, 

Told  us  this  part  of  the  story. 

That  mouse  did  not  trouble  Mrs.  Partington  again  that  night,  and  the 
old  clock  in  the  next  room  struck  three  before  sleep  again  visited  the  eye- 
lids of  the  relict  of  Corporal  Paul. 


DOING  GOOD,  TRUE  HAPPINESS. 


CARLOS    WILCOX. 


^ULDST  thou  from  sorrow   find  a 
sweet  relief? 
Or  is  thy  heart  oppress'd  with 
woes  untold  ? 
Balm    wouldst  thou  gather  from 
corroding  grief? 
Pour  blessings  round  thee  like  a 
shower  of  gold. 
'Tis  when  the  rose  is  wrapp'd  in  many  a  fold 


Close  to  its  heart,  the  worm  is  wasting  there 
Its  life  and  beauty ;  not  when,  all  un- 
roU'd, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  its  bosom,  rich  and  fair, 
Breathes  freely  its  perfumes  throughout  the 
ambient  air. 

Wake,   thou    that  sleepest  in    enchanted 
bowers, 


220 


TO  THE  SILENT  RIVER. 


Lest  these  lost  years  should  haunt  thee  on 
the  night 
When  death  is  waiting  for  thy  number'd  hours 
To  take  their  swift  and  everlasting  flight ; 
Wake,  ere  the  earth-born  charm  unnerve 
thee  quite, 
And  be  thy  thoughts  to  work  divine  address'd ; 
Do  something — do  it  soon — with  all  thy 
might ; 
An  angel's  wing  would  droop  if  long  at  rest, 
And  God  himself,  inactive,  were  no  longer 
blest. 

Some  high  or  humble  enterprise  of  good 

Contemplate,  till  it  shall  possess  thy  mind. 
Become  thy  study,  pastime,  rest,  and  food. 
And  kindle  in  thy  heart  a  flame  refined. 
Pray  Heaven  for  firmness  thy  whole  soul 
to  bind 
To  this  thy  purpose — to  begin,  pursue, 
With  thoughts  all  fix'd,  and  feelings  purely 
kind ; 
Strength  to  complete,  and  with  delight  review, 
And  grace  to  give  the  praise  where  all  is  ever 
due. 

No  good  of  worth  sublime  will  Heaven  permit 

To  light  on  man  as  from  the  passing  air ; 
The  lamp  of  genius,  though  by  nature  lit. 
If  not  protected,  pruned,  and  fed  with  care. 
Soon  dies,   or  runs   to  waste  with   fitful 
glare ; 
And  learning  is  a  plant  that  spreads  and  towers 

Slow  as  Columbia's  aloe,  proudly  rare, 
That  'mid  gay  thousands,  with  the  suns  and 

showers 
Of  half  a   century,   grows   alone   before   it 
flowera. 


Has  immortality  of  name  been  given 

To  them  that  idly  worship  hills  and  groves, 
And  burn  sweet  incense  to  the  queen  of  hea- 
ven? 
Did  Newton  learn  from  fancy,  as  it  rovee, 
To  measure  worlds,  and  follow  where  each 
moves  ? 
Did  Howard  gain  renown  that  shall  not  cease, 
By  wanderings  wild  that  nature's  pilgrim 
loves  ? 
Or  did  Paul  gain  heaven's  glory  and  its  peace 
By  musing  o'er  the  bright  and  tranquil  isles 
of  Greece? 

Beware  lest  thou,  from  sloth,  that  would  ap- 
pear 
But  lowliness  of  mind,  with  joy  proclaim 
Thy  want  of  worth, — a  charge  thou  couldst 
not  hear 
From  other  lips,  without  a  blush  of  shame. 
Or    pride   indignant ;    then   be  thine   the 
blame, 
And  make  thyself  of  worth  ;  and  thus  enlist 
The  smiles  of  all  the  good,  the  dear  to  fame ; 
'Tis  infamy  to  die  and  not  be  miss'd. 
Or  let  all  soon  forget  that  thou  didst  e'er  exist. 

Rouse  to  some  work  of  high  and  holy  love. 
And  thou  an  angel's  happiness  shalt  know  ; 

Shalt  bless  the  earth  while  in  the  world  above; 
The  good  begun  by  thee  shall  onward  flow 
In  many  a  branching  stream,  and  wider 
grow ; 

The  seed  that,  in  these  few  and  fleeting  hours. 
Thy  hand,  unsparing  and  unwearied,  sow 

Shall  deck  thy  grave  with  amaranthine  flow'rs. 

And   yield    thoe   fruits    divine  in   heaven's 
immortal  bowers. 


TO  THE  SILENT  RIVER. 


II.    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


\'ER  that  in  silonco  windoHt 
Through    the    meadows  bright  and 
free, 
Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 
In  the  boaom  of  tlie  flca  I 


Pour  long  years  of  mingled  feeling, 
Half  in  rest,  and  half  iii  strife, 

I  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 


TO   THE  SILENT   RIVER. 


221 


Thou  hast  taught  me,  Sik-ut  River 
Many  a  lesson  deep  and  long ; 

Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver  ; 
I  can  give  thee  but  a  song. 


Oft  in  sadness,  and  in  illness 

I  have  watched  thy  (?urrent  glide, 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a  tide. 


222 


SONG  OF  THE  BROOK. 


Aud  in  bitter  hours  and  brighter, 

Friends  I  love  have  dwelt  beside  thee. 

When  I  saw  thy  waters  gleam, 

And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 

And  leap  forward  with  thy  stream. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers  ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  starl 

Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee. 

When  I  fan  the  living  emb^ra 

Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart  1 

From  celestial  seas  above  thee 

Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

'Tis  for  this,  then,  Silent  River ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee ; 

Where  yon  phadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 

Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver, 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 


Take  this  idle  sons  from  me. 


SONG  OF  THE  BllOOK. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 


-  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern  : 
I  make  a  sudden  sally 
\.nd  sparkle  out  among  the  fern. 
To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down. 
Or  slip  between  the  ridgos, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town. 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip'fl  farm  J.  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  rnen  may  como  aud  men  may  go^ 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  chatter  over  xtony  waye, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  biibblo  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  tlic  pebbles. 


With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow. 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  aud  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river ; 

For  men  may  come  and  nun  may  g(\ 
But  I  "0  on  forever. 


I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  lioro  and  thoro  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  thoro  a  grayling, 

And  hero  and  thoro  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  mo,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  watorbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  QUICKSAND. 


223 


And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 

Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots ; 

I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars ; 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

I  love  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  maj  ff>, 

Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

CAUGHT  IN  THE  QUICKSAND. 


VICTOR    HUGO. 


Wm^  sometimes  happens  that  a  man,  traveler  or  fisherman,  v,- diking  ou 
^^  the  beach  at  low  tide,  far  from  the  bank,  suddenly  notices  that  for 
X  several  minutes  he  has  been  walking  with  some  difficulty.  The 
strand  beneath  his  feet  is  Hke  pitch  ;  his  soles  stick  in  it ;  it  is  sand 
no  longer ;  it  is  glue. 

The  beach  is  perfectly  dry,  but  at  every  step  lie  takes,  as  soon 
as  he  lifts  his  foot,  the  print  which  it  leaves  fills  with  water.  The  eye, 
however,  has  noticed  no  change ;  the  immense  strand  is  smooth  and  tran- 
quil; all  the  sand  has  the  same  appearance;  nothing  distinguishes  the 
surface  which  is  solid  from  that  which  is  no  longer  so ;  the  joyous  little 
crowd  of  sand-flies  continue  to  leap  tumultuously  over  the  wayfarer's  feet. 
The  man  pursues  his  way,  goes  forward,  inclines  to  the  land,  endeavors  to 
get  nearer  the  upland. 

He  is  not  anxious.  Anxious  about  what  ?  Only  he  fee)s,  somehow,  as 
if  the  weight  of  his  feet  increases  with  every  step  he  takes.  Suddenly  he 
sinks  in. 

He  sinks  in  two  or  three  inches.  Decidedly  he  is  not  on  the  right 
road ;  he  stops  to  take  his  bearings ;  now  he  looks  at  hia  feet.  They  have 
disappeared.  The  sand  covers  them.  He  draws  them  out  of  the  sand ; 
he  will  retrace  his  steps.  He  turns  back,  he  sinks  in  deeper.  The  sand 
comes  up  to  his  ankles ;  he  pulls  himself  out  and  throws  himself  to  the 
left — the  sand  half  leg  deep.  He  throws  himself  to  the  right ;  the  sand 
comes  up  to  his  shins.  Then  he  recognizes  with  unspeakable  terror  that 
he  is  caught  v^  the  guicksand,  and  that  he  has  beneath  him  the  terrible 


224  THE  ORIENT. 


tnedium  in  which  man  can  no  more  walk  than  the  tish  can  swim.  Ho 
throws  ott'his  load  if  he  has  one,  lightens  himself  as  a  ship  in  distress;  it  is 
already  too  late;  the  sand  is  above  his  knees.  He  calls,  he  waves  his  hat 
or  his  handkerchief;  the  sand  gains  on  him  more  and  more.  If  the  beach 
is  deserted,  if  the  land  is  too  far  off,  if  there  is  no  help  in  sight,  it  is  all  over. 

He  is  condemned  to  that  appalling  burial,  long,  infallible,  implacable, 
and  impossible  to  slacken  or  to  hasten ;  which  endures  for  hours,  which 
seizes  you  erect,  free,  and  in  full  health,  and  which  draws  you  by  the  feet; 
which,  at  every  effort  that  you  attempt,  at  every  siiout  you  utter,  drags 
you  a  little  deeper,  sinking  you  slowly  into  the  earth  while  you  look  upon 
the  horizon,  the  sails  of  the  ships  upon  the  sea,  the  birds  flying  and  singing, 
the  sunshine  and  the  sky.  The  victim  attempts  to  sit  down,  to  lie  down, 
to  creep;  every  movement  he  makes  inters  him  ;  he  straightens  up,  he  sinks 
in;  he  feels  that  he  is  being  swallowed.  He  howls,  implores,  cries  to  the 
clouds,  despairs. 

Behold  him  waist  deep  in  the  sand.  The  sand  reaches  his  breast;  he 
is  now  only  a  bust.  He  raises  his  arms,  utters  furious  groans,  clutches  the 
beach  with  his  nails,  would  hold  by  that  straw,  leans  upon  his  elbows  to 
pull  himself  out  of  this  soft  sheath;  sobs  frenziedly ;  the  sand  rises;  the 
sand  reaches  his  shoulders;  the  sand  reaches  his  neck;  the  face  alone  is 
visible  now.  The  mouth  cries,  the  sand  fills  it — silence.  The  eyes  still 
gaze,  the  sand  shuts  them — night.  Now  the  forehead  decreases,  a  little 
hair  flutters  above  the  sand  ;  a  hand  comes  to  the  surface  of  the  beach, 
moves,  and  shakes,  disappears.  It  is  the  earth-drowning  man.  The  earth 
filled  with  the  ocean  becomes  a  trap.  It  presents  itself  like  a  plain,  and 
opens  like  a  wave. 


THE  ORIENT. 


FROM  BYRON  S   BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


NOW  yo  tlio  land  whore  the  cypress 
and  myrtle 
Aro  rmiblems  of  deeds  that  are  done 
in  tlioir  clime, 
Wli'^re  the  rago  of   thf  vulturf,  (lie 
love  of  the  turth-, 
Now  melt  into  Borrow,  now  madden 
to  rrimf  ' 
Know  yo  the  land  of  tho  codar  and  vin*-, 
Where  the  flowers  over  blossom,  tho  beams 
ever  sbino : 


Whore  tho  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  opprossA 

with  perfume, 
Wax  faint  o'er  tho  gardens  of  Gul  in   lui 

bloom ! 
Wli<T«  tiio  uitron  and  olive  aro  fairest  of  fruit 
And  the  voice  of  l,he  nightingale  never  is 

mute. 
Where  tintw  of  the  earth,  and  tho  hues  of  the 

Bky, 
In  co'kor  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
And  ine  oarple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  dye ; 


THE  MORAVIAN  REQUIEM. 


225 


Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they 

twine, 
And  all,  eave  the  spiri*^  of  man,  is  divine  ? 
*T  is  the  clime  of  the  East ;  't  is  the  land  of 

the  Sun, — 


Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children 

have  done  ? 
0,  wild  as  the  accents  of  lover's  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear  and  the  t«^«i 

which  they  tell  I 


ABOU  BEN  ADEEM. 


LEIGH    HUNT. 


I>0U  Ben  Adhem, — may  his  tribe  in- 
crease,— 
^L     Awoke  one    night  from    a    sweet 
^  dream  of  peace, 

I         And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in 
t  his  room, 

'*'     Making  it  rich,  and   like   a  lily  in 
bloom, 
An  angel,  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 
Exceeding   peace    had    made    Ben    Adhem 

bold. 
And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"  What  writest  thou  ?"     The  vision  raised  its 

head. 
And  with  a  look  made  all  of  sweet  accord, 


Answered,  "  The  names  of  those  who  love 

the  Lord." 
"  And  is  mine  one  ?"  said  Abou.     "  Nay,  not 

so," 
Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerily  still ;  and  said,  "  I  pray  thee, 

then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men.' 

The  angel  wrote  and  vanished.     The  next 

night 
It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God 

had  bless'd ; 
And  lo !    Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest 


TEE  MORA  VIAN  REQUIEM. 


HARRIET   B.   M  KEEVER. 


It  is  customary  with  the  Moravians  at  Bethlehem,  Pa.,  to  announce  the  decease  of  a  member  of  their  com 
IDunion,  from  the  tower  of  tlie  church  adjoining  the  cemeterj',  by  three  appropriate  strains  of  melody  rendered 
by  a  trombone  band.  The  closing  straius  designate  the  age  and  sex  of  the  departed  one.  1  heard  it  for  the  first 
time  at  sunset,  in  the  cemetery,  unexpectedly ;  the  effect  was  indescribable ;  the  custom  is  beautiful,  sweetly  ex 
pressive  of  loving  brotherhood. 


^HP^T  twilight  hour,  when  mem'ry's  power 
Wakes  up  the  visions  of  the  buried 
past, 
-.        From  earth  retreating,    soft  silence 
«f  greeting, 

J        I   wandered,   where  the  weary  rest 
at  last. 


The  sun  retiring,  sad  thoughts  inspiring, 

I    mused  in    solemn   silence    'mid   the 
dead; 
When  softly   stealing,   death's   call   reveal- 
ing, 
Sounds  of  low  wailing  from  the  tower 
were  sped. 


226 


THE  MISER. 


First  faintly  swelling,  the  tidings  telling, 
In  notes  of  tenderest  sorrow,  one  has  gone  ; 


vVe've  lost  another,  a  youthful  brother ; 
Mourn  for  a  home  bereft,  a  spirit  flown. 


The    notes    of    anguish   first  seem   to  lan- 
guish, 
Like  to  the  moaning  of  a  parting  sigh  ; 
Then  raptured  swelling,  a  tale  they're  tell- 
ing. 
Of  triumph  over  death,  of  victory. 

"  Farewell  to  sorrow !  I'll  wake  to-morrow, 
When  the  long  slumber  of  the  tomb  is 
o'er; 
Then  rising  glorious,  o'er  death  victorious, 
We'll  meet,  we'll  meet,  where  partings  are 
no  more." 

Thus  wails  the    trombone,  and  as    its    soft 
tone 
Breathes  a  sad  requiem  for  death's  fre- 
quent calls, 
'Tis  sweet  to  render  this  tribute  tender, 

Whene'er   a   brother   from    among   us 
falls. 


THE  MISER. 


GEORGE  W.   CUTTER. 


;N  old  man  sat  by  a  fireless  hearth, 
Though  the  night  was  dark  and 
■  i  chill. 

And  mournfully   over  the    frozen 
earth 
The  wind  sobbed  loud  and  shrill. 
Ilis  locks  were  gray,  and  his  eyes  were 
gray, 
And  dim,  but  not  with  tears  ; 
And  his  skeleton  form  had  wasted  away 
With  penury,  more  than  years. 


A.  ruHh-light  waa  ca.'tting  its  fitful  glare 

O'er  the  damp  and  dingy  walls, 
Where  the  lizard  hath  made  his  slimy  lair, 

And  the  venomous  spider  crawls ; 
Bnt  the  meanest  thing  in  this  lonosomo  room 

Was  the  miser  worn  and  bare, 
Where  ho  sat  like  a  ghost  in  an  empty  tomb, 

On  his  broken  and  only  chair. 


He  had  bolted  the  window  and  barred  the 
door. 

And  every  nook  had  scanned  ; 
And  felt  the  fastening  o'er  and  o'er. 

With  his  cold  and  skinny  hand ; 
And  yet  he  sat  gazing  intently  round. 

And  trembled  with  silent  fear, 
And  started  and  shuddered  at  every  sound 

That  fell  on  his  coward  ear. 

"  Ila,  ha  !"  laughed  the  miser:  "  I'm  safe  at 

last 

From  this  niglit  so  cold  and  drear. 
From    the    drenching     rain    and    driving 
Mast, 

Witii  my  gold  and  treasures  here. 
I  am  cold  and  wot  with  the  icy  rain, 

And  my  health  is  bad,  'tis  true  ; 
Yet  if  I  should  light  that  fire  again, 

It  would  cost  mo  a  cent  or  two. 


THE  ORDER  OF  NOBILITY. 


227 


"  But  I'll  take  a  sip  of  the  precious  wine : 

It  will  banish  my  cold  and  fears : 
It  was  given  long  since  by  a  friend  of  mine — 

I  have  kept  it  for  many  years." 
So  he  drew  a  flask  from  a  mouldy  nook, 

And  drank  of  its  ruby  tide ; 
And  his  eyes  grew  bright  with  each  draught 
he  took, 

And  his  bosom  swelled  with  pride. 

Let  me  see  ;  let  me  see !"   said  the  miser 
then, 

"  'Tis  some  sixty  years  or  more 
Since  the  happy  hour  when  I  began 

To  heap  up  the  glittering  store  ; 
And  well  have  I  sped  with  my  anxious  toil, 

As  my  crowded  chest  will  show  : 
I've  more  than  would  ransom  a  kingdom's 
spoil, 

Or  an  emperor  could  bestow." 


He  turned  to  an  old  worm-eaten  chest, 

And  cautiously  raised  the  lid. 
And   then   it  shone  like  the  clouds   of  the 
west, 

With  the  sun  in  their  splendor  hid: 
And  gem  after  gem,  in  precious  store. 

Are  raised  with  exulting  smile  ; 
And  he  counted  and  counted  them  o'er  and 
o'er. 

In  many  a  glittering  pile. 

Why  comes  the  flush  to  his  pallid  brow, 

While  his  eyes  like  his  diamonds  shine  ? 
Why    writhes    he    thus    in    such    torture 
now? 

What  was  there  yi  the  wine  ? 
He  strove  his  lonely  seat  to  gain  : 

To  crawl  to  his  nest  he  tried  , 
But  finding  his  efforts  all  in  vain, 

He  clasped  his  gold,  and — died. 


THE  POOR  INDIAN! 


W^  KNOW  him  by  his  falcon  eye, 
^^'      His  raven  tress  and  mien  of  pride ; 
fM^  Those  dingy  draperies,  as  they  fly, 
(|;it^       Tell  that  a  great  soul  throbs  inside ! 

fNo  eagle-feathered  crown  he  wears. 
Capping  in  pride  his  kingly  brow ; 
But    his    crownlesss   hat   in  grief  de- 
clares, 
"  I  am  an  unthroned  monarch  now  !" 

"  0  noble  son  of  a  royal  line !" 
I  exclaim,  as  I  gaze  into  his  face. 


"  How  shall  I  knit  my  soul  to  thine? 

How  right  the  wrongs  of  thine  injured  race? 

"  What  shall  I  do  for  thee,  glorious  one  ? 

To  soothe  thy  sorrows  my  soul  aspires. 
Speak !  and  say  how  the  Saxon's  son 

May  atone  for  the  wrongs  of  his  ruthless 

sires  !" 

He  speaks,  he  speaks  ! — that  noble  chief! 

From  his  marble  lips  deep  accents  come ; 
And  I  catch  the  sound  of  his  mighty  grief,— 

"  Pie  gi  me  tree  cent  for  git  some  rumf" 


THE  ORDER  OF  NOBILITY. 


EDMUND   BURKE. 


|0  be  honored  and  even  privileged  by  the  laws,  opinions,  and  in- 
veterate usages  of  our  country,  growing  out  of  the  prejudice  of 
ages,  has  nothing  to  provoke  horror  and  indignation  in  any  man. 
Even  to  be  too  tenacious  of  those  privileges  is  not  absolutely  a 
crime.     The  strong  struggle  in  every  individual  to  preserve  posses- 
sion of  what  he  has  found  to  belong  to  him,  and  to  distinguish  him,  is 


228 


THE  FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY  AND  THE  KNIFE-GRINDER. 


one  of  the  securities  against  injustice  and  des- 
potism implanted  in  our  nature.  It  operates  as 
an  instinct  to  secure  property,  and  to  preserve 
communities  in  a  settled  state.  What  is  there 
to  shock  in  this?  Nobility  is  a  graceful  orna- 
ment to  the  civil  order.  It  is  the  Corinthian 
capital  of  polished  society.  Omnes  boni  nobili- 
tati  semper  favemus,  was  the  saying  of  a  wise 
and  good  man.  It  is,  indeed,  one  sign  of  a 
liberal  and  benevolent  mind  to  incline  to  it  with 
some  sort  of  partial  propensity.  He  feels  no 
ennobling  principle  in  his  own  heart  who  wishes 
to  level  all  the  artificial  institutions  which  have 
been  adopted  for  giving  a  body  to  opinion  and 
permanence  to  fugitive  esteem.  It  is  a  sour, 
malignant,  and  envious  disposition,  without  taste 
for  the  reality,  oi-  for  any  image  or  representa- 
tion of  virtue,  that  sees  with  joy  the  unmerited 
fall  of  what  had  long  flourished  in  splendor  and  in  honor, 
to  see  anything  destroyed,  any  void  produced  in  society,  ai 
face  of  the  land. 


I  do 
y  ruin 


not  like 
on  the 


THE  FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY  AND  THE  KNIFE-GRINDER. 


GEORGE   CANNING. 


FRIEND   OF    HUMANITY. 

EEDY    knife-grinder!    whither    are 
you  going  ? 
?'   Rough   is  the  roa'l ;  your   wheel  is 
out  of  order. 
BU;ak  hlows   the  hlast; — your  hat 
hiw  got  a  hole  in't; 
So  have  your  breeches  ! 


Weary  knife-grinder  !  little  think  the  proud 

ones, 
Who  in  their  coache.n  roll  along  the  turnpike- 

roa<l, 
Wliat  hard  work  't  is  crying  all  day  "  Kuivcs 

and 
HcisHora  to  grind  O !" 


Tell   me,   knife-grinder,    liow   came   j'on   to 

grind  knives? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  yon? 
Was  it  the  squire?  or  par.son  of  the  parish  7 
Or  the  attorney  ? 

Was  it  the  squire  for  killing  of  his  game?  or 
Covetous  parson  for  liis  tithe.s  distraining? 
Or  roguish  lawyer  made  you  lose  yui'  little 
All  in  a  lawsuit  ? 

(Have  you   not  read  the  Rights  of  Man,  by 

Tom  Paine?) 
Drops  of  comjiasHion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Ready  to  fall  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 

Pitiful  story. 


MOTHERHOOD. 


229 


KNIFE-GRINDER. 

A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence  ; 

Story  !  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir ; 

But  for  my  part,  1  never  love  to  me<ldle 

Only,  last  night,  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 

With  politics,  sir. 

This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see, 
were 
Torn  in  a  scuffle. 

FRIEND   OF    HUMANITY. 

I  give  thee  sixpence!  I   will  see  thee  dead 
first,— 

Constables  came  up  for  to  take  me  into 

Wretch  !  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can  rou*« 

Custody  ;  they  took  me  before  the  justice; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish-stocks 

to  vengeance, — 
Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded. 

For  a  vagrant. 

Spiritless  outcast ! 

[Kicks  the  knife-grinder,  overturns  his  wheel 

I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honor's  health 

and  exit  in  a  transport  of  republican  enthu 

in 

siasm  and  universal  philanthropy .] 

TWO  LITTLE  KITTENS. 


!W0  little  kittens,  one  stormy  night. 
Began  to  quarrel  and  then  to  fight ; 
One  had  a  mouse,  the  other  had  none. 
And  that  was  the  way  the  quarrel 
begun. 

II  have  that  mouse,"  said  the  biggest 
cat. 


You'll  have   that   mouse,   we'll   see   about 
that." 


"  I  will  have  that  mouse,"  said  the  eldest 

son. 
"  You  shan't  have  that  mouse,"  said  the  little 

one. 

I  told  you  before  'twas  a  stormy  night 
When  these  two  little  kittens  began  to  fight ; 
The  old  woman  seized  her  sweeping-broom 
And  swept  the  two  kittens  right  out  of  the 
room. 

The  ground  was  covered  with  frost  and  snow. 
And  the  two  little  kittens  had  nowhere  to  go, 
So  they  laid  them  down  on  the  mat  at  the 

door. 
While  the  old  woman  finished  sweeping  t'uo 

floor. 

Then  they  both  crept  in,  as  quiet  as  mice. 

All  wet  with  snow  and  cold  as  ice ; 

For  they  found   it  was  better,  that  stormy 

night, 
To  lie  down  and  sleep,  than  to  quarrel  and 

fight. 


MOTHERHOOD. 


Y  neighbor's  house  is  not  so  high 
Nor  half  so  nice  as  mine ; 
I  often  see  the  blind  ajar, 
And  tho'  the  curtain's  fine, 


'Tis  only  muslin,  and  the  stepe 
Are  not  of  stone  at  all, 

And  yet  I  long  for  her  small  home 
To  give  mine  all  in  all. 


230 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  SHIPS. 


Her  lawn  is  never  left  to  grow, 

The  children  tread  it  down, 
And  when  the  father  comes  at  night 

I  hear  them  clatter  down 
fhe  gravel  walk — and  such  a  noise, 

Comes  to  my  listening  ears, 
^  my  sad  heart's  been  waiting  for 

So  many  silent  years. 

Sometimes  I  peep  to  see  them 

Seize  his  coat,  and  hand,  and  knees, 

All  three  so  eager  to  be  first. 
And  hear  her  call,  "  Don't  teaze, 


Papa !"  the  baby  springs — 
And  then  the  low  brown  door 

Shuts  in  their  happiness — and  I 
Sit  wishing  as  before. 

That  my  neighbor's  little  cottage. 

And  the  jewels  of  her  crown 
Had  been  ni}'  own — my  mansion 

With  its  front  of  freestone  brown, 
Its  damask,  and  its  Honiton, 

Its  lawn  so  green  and  bright, 
How  gladly  would  I  give  them, 

For  her  motherhood,  to-night. 


TRUST. 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


<^-n 


PICTURE  memory  brings  to  me : 
I  look  across  the  years  and  see 
Myself  beside  my  mother's  knee. 


I  feel  her  gentle  hand  restrain 
My  selfish  moods,  and  know  again 
A  child's  blind  sense  of  wrong  and  pain 


But  wiser  now,  a  man  gray  grown, 

My  childhood's  needs  are  better  known, 

My  mother's  chastening  love  I  own. 

Gray  grown,  but  in  our  Father's  sight 
A  child  still  groping  for  the  light 
To  read  his  works  and  ways  aright. 

I  how  myself  beneath  his  hand  ; 
That  pain  itself  for  good  was  planned, 
1  trust,  but  cannot  understand. 


I  fondly  dream  it  needs  must  be, 
That  as  my  mother  dealt  with  me, 
So  with  His  children  dealeth  He. 


r.iiirii  I'l.A'i: 


wii  I  rrrKit. 
I  wait,  and  trust  the  end  will  prove 
Tliat  here  and  there,  below,  above, 
The  chastening  heals,  the  pain  is  love  I 


TEE  MEETING  OF  THE  SHIPS. 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 


\ 


'A'O  barks  met  on  the  deep  mid  sea, 
When  calms  had  stilled  the  tide ; 
A  few  bright  days  of  summer  glee 
There  found  them  side  by  side. 

And  voices  of  the  fair  and  bravo 
Kose  mingling  thence  in  mirth  , 


And  Kwcetly  floated  o'er  the  wave 
The  melodies  of  earth. 

Moonlight  on  that  lone  Indian  main 
Cloudless  and  lovely  slept ; 

While  dancing  step  and  festive  strain 
Ea<h  dock  in  triuiiijih  swept. 


BURKE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  SON. 


231 


And  hands  were  linked,  and  answering  eyes 

With  kindly  meaning  shone  ; 
0,  brief  and  passing  sympathies, 

Like  leaves  together  blown  ! 

A  little  while  such  joy  was  cast 

Over  the  deep's  repose. 
Till  the  loud  singing  winds  at  last 

Like  trumpet  music  rose. 


And  proudly,  freely  on  their  way 
The  parting  vessels  bore ; 

In  calm  or  storm,  by  rock  or  bay, 
To  meet — 0,  nevermore  ! 

Never  to  blend  in  victory's  cheer, 

To  aid  in  hours  of  woe ; 
And  thus  bright  spirits  mingle  here, 

Such  ties  are  formed  below. 


,  «^i!for^  . 


BURKE  ON  TEE  DEATH  OF  HIS  SON. 


pAD  it  pleased  God  to  continue  to  me  the  hopes  of  succession,  I 
should  have  been,  according  to  my  mediocrity,  and  the  mediocrity 
of  the  age  I  live  in,  a  sort  of  founder  of  a  family ;  I  should  have 
I  I  left  a  son,  who,  in  all  the  points  in  which  personal  merit  can  be 
viewed,  in  science,  in  erudition,  in  genius,  in  taste,  in  honor,  in 
generosity,  in  humanity,  in  every  liberal  sentiment,  and  every  liberal 
accomplishment,  would  not  have  shown  himself  inferior  to  the  Duke  of 
Bedford,  or  to  any  of  those  whom  he  traces  in  his  line.  His  Grace  very 
3oon  would  have  wanted  all  plausibility  in  his  attack  upon  that  provision 
which  belonged  more  to  mine  than  to  me.  He  would  soon  have  supplied 
every  deficiency,  and  symmetrized  every  disproportion.  It  would  not 
have  been  for  that  successor  to  resort  to  any  stagnant  wasting  reservoir  of 
merit  in  me,  or  in  any  ancestry.  He  had  in  himself  a  salient  living  spring 
of  generous  and  manly  action.  Every  day  he  lived,  he  would  have  pur- 
chased the  bounty  of  the  crown,  and  ten  times  more,  if  ten  times  more  he 
had  received.  He  was  made  a  public  creature,  and  had  no  enjoyment 
whatever  but  in  the  performance  of  some  duty.  At  this  exigent  moment 
the  loss  of  a  finished  man  is  not  easily  supplied. 

But  a  Disposer,  whose  power  we  are  Httle  able  to  resist,  and  whose  wis- 
dom it  behooves  us  not  at  all  to  dispute,  has  ordained  it  in  another  manner 
and— whatever  my  querulous  weakness  might  suggest — a  far  better.  The 
storm  has  gone  over  me,  and  I  lie  like  one  of  those  oaks  which  the  late 
hurricane  has  scattered  about  me.  I  am  stripped  of  all  my  honors ;  I  am 
torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  lie  prostrate  on  the  earth  !  There,  and  prostrate 
there,  I  most  unfeignedly  recognize  the  divine  justice,  and  in  some  degree 
submit  to  it.  But  whilst  I  humble  myself  before  God,  I  do  not  know  that 
it  is  forbidden  to  repel  the  attacks  of  unjust   and  inconsiderate  men.     The 


patience  of  Job  is  proverbial. 
16 


After  some  of  the  convulsive  struggles  of 


232  THE  DOVE-COTE. 


our  irritable  nature,  he  submitted  himself,  and  repented  in  dust  and  ashes. 
But  even  so,  I  do  not  find  him  blamed  for  reprehending,  and  with  a  con- 
siderable degree  of  verbal  asperity,  those  ill-natured  neighbors  of  his  who 
visited  his  dung-hill  to  read  moral,  political,  and  economical  lectures  on  his 
misery.  I  am  alone.  I  have  none  to  meet  my  enemies  in  the  gate.  In- 
deed, my  lord,  I  greatly  deceive  myself,  if  in  this  hard  season  I  would  give 
a  peck  of  refuse  wheat  for  all  that  is  called  fiime  and  honor  in  the  world. 
This  is  the  appetite  but  of  a  few.  It  is  a  luxury,  it  is  a  privilege ;  it  is 
an  indulgence  for  those  who  are  at  their  ease.  But  we  are  all  of  us  made 
to  shun  disgrace,  as  we  ai'e  made  to  shrink  from  pain,  and  poverty,  and 
diseaee.  It  is  an  instinct :  and  under  the  direction  of  reason,  instinct  is 
always  in  the  right.  I  live  in  an  inverted  order.  They  who  ought  to 
have  succeeded  me  are  gone  before  me ;  they  who  should  have  been  to  me 
as  posterity,  are  in  the  place  of  ancestors.  I  owe  to  the  dearest  relation — ' 
which  ever  must  subsist  in  memory — that  act  of  piety  which  he  would 
have  performed  to  me ;  I  owe  it  to  him  to  show,  that  he  was  not  de- 
scended, as  the  Duke  of  Bedford  would  have  it,  from  an  unworthy  parent. 


MILTON. 


T.    B.    MACADLAY, 


^0  Milton,  and  to   Milton  alone,  belonged  the  secrets  of  the  great 
deep,  the  beach  of  sulphur,  the  ocean  of  fire;  the  palaces  of  the 
fallen  dominations,  glimmering  through  the  everlasting  shade,  the 
silent  wilderness  of  verdure  and  fragrance  where  armed    angels 
•r  kept  watch  over  the  sleep  of  the  first  lovers,  the  portico  of  dia- 

J  mond,  the  sea  of  jasper,  the  sapphire  pavement  empurpled  with 

celestial   roses,  and   the  infinite    ranks   of   the  Cherubim,  blazing   with 
adamant  and  gold. 


THE  DOVE-COTE. 


,  AUNT    KFFIES    RHYMES. 

«,  t- Ji  f. 


j;l!pF,RY  high  in  the  flove-coto 
'W^:        Tlio  little  Turtle  Dove 
M.ule  a  pretty  nurflery 

To  please  her  little  love. 

Slie  waM  gentle,  she  wiw  soft, 

And  luT  large  ilark  eye 


Often  turned  to  hor  mate, 
Who  w;is  sitting  close  by. 

"Coo,"  said  the  Turtle  Dove, 
"Coo,"  said  she, 


THE  iMYSTERY  OF  LIFE  IN  CHRIST. 


233 


'  Oh,  I  love  thee,"  said  the  Turtle  Dove, 
"  Aad  I  love  thee." 


'Neath  the  long  shady  branches 

Of  the  dark  [>ine  tree, 
How  happy  were  the  doves 

In  their  little  nursery  ! 

The  young  Turtle  Doves 

Never  quarreled  in  their  nest ; 
For  they  dearly  loved  each  other, 

Though  they  loved  their  mother  best. 
"  Coo,"  said  the  Turtle  Doves, 

"  Coo,"  said  she. 
And  they  played  together  kindly 

In  their  little  nurser3^ 

Is  this  nursery  of  yours. 

Little  sister,  little  brother, 
Like  the  Turtle  Dove's  nest? — 

Do  you  love  one  another  ? 
Are  you  kind,  are  you  gentle, 

As  children  ought  to  be  ? 
Then  the  happiest  of  nests 

Is  your  own  nursery. 


PATRIOTISM. 


SIR   WALTER    SCOTT. 


REATHES  there  the  man  with  soul  so 
dead 
Who  never  to  himself  liath  said. 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him 
burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 
From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ! 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well  ; 


For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell : 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim, 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung. 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  LIFE  IN  CHRIST 


MRS.    E.    PRENTISS. 


WALK  along  the  crowded  streets,  and 
mark 
The  eager,  anxious,  troubled  faces ; 
Wondering  what  this  man  seeks,  what 
that  heart  craves, 
In  earthly  places. 


Do  I  want  anything  that  they   are    want- 
ing? 
Is  each  of  them  my  brother  ? 
Could  we   hold    fellowship,    speak  heart    to 
heart, 
Each  to  the  other  ? 


234 


SCENE  AT  NIAGARA  FALLS. 


Nay,  but  I  know  not !  only  this  I  know, 
That  sometimes  merely  crossing 

Another's     path,    where    life's    tumultuous 
waves 
Are  ever  tossing, 

He,  as  He  passes,  whispers  in  mine  ear 
One  magic  sentence  only. 


And  in  the  awful  loneliness  of  crowds 
I  am  not  lonely. 

Ah,  what  a  life  is  theirs  who  live  in  Christ; 

How  vast  the  mystery  ! 
Reaching  in  height  to  heaven,  and  in    its 
depth 

The  unfathomed  sea. 


ROLL  ON,   THOU  SUN. 


ANONYMOUS. 


gl^pOLL  on,  thou  Sun,  forever  roll, 
^^^;^        Thou  giant,  rushing  through  the 
•■^■^Jif  heaven! 

Creation's  wonder,  nature's  soul. 
Thy  golden    wheels    by  angels 
driven ! 
The  planets  die  without  thy  blaze. 
And  cherubim,  with  star-dropt  wing. 
Float  in  thy  diamond-sparkling  rays. 
Thou  brightest  emblem  of  their  king  ! 

Roll,  lovely  Earth,  and  still  roil  on. 

With  ocean's  azure  beauty  bound  ; 
While  one  sweet  star,  the  pearly  moon. 

Pursues  thee  through  the  blue  profound  ; 
And  angels,  with  delighted  eyes, 

Behold  thy  tints  of  mount  and  stream, 
From  the  high  walls  of  Paradise, 

Swift  wheeling  like  a  glorious  dream. 


Roll,  Planets !  on  your  dazzling  road, 

Forever  sweeping  round  the  sun ! 
What  eye  beheld  when  first  ye  glowed  ? 

What  eye  shall  see  your  courses  done  ? 
Roll  in  your  solemn  majesty, 

Ye  deathless  splendors  of  the  skies ! 
High  altars,  from  which  angels  see 

The  incense  of  creation  rise. 


Roll,  Comets  !  and  ye  million  Stars ! 

Ye  that  through  boundless  nature  roam  ; 
Ye  monarchs  on  your  flame-wing  cars ; 

Tell  us  in  what  more  glorious  dome, — 
What  orbs  to  which  your  pomps  are  dim, 

What  kingdom  but  by  angels  trod, — 
Tell  us  where  swells  the  eternal  hymn 

Around    His    throne   where    dwells   your 
God? 


SCENE  AT  NIAGARA  FALLS. 


CHARLHS    TAIWON. 


is  summer.  A  party  of  visitors  are  just  crossing  the  iron  briilgo  that 
extends  from  the  American  shore  to  Goat's  Island,  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  above  the  Falls.  Just  as  they  are  about  to  leave,  while 
watching  the  stream  as  it  plunges  and  dashes  among  the  rocks 
below,  the  eye  of  one  fastens  on  something  clinging  to  a  rock — 
caught  on  the  very  verge  of  the  Falls.  Scarcely  willing  to  believe  hia 


SCENE  AT  NIAGARA  FALLS.  235 


own  vision,  he  directs  the  attention  of  his  companions.  The  terrible  news 
spreads  like  lightning,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  bridge  and  the  surround- 
ing shores  are  covered  with  thousands  of  spectators.  "  Who  is  he  ?"  "  How 
did  he  get  there  ?"  are  questions  every  person  proposed,  but  answered  by 
none.  No  voice  is  heard  above  the  awful  flood,  but  a  spy-glass  shows 
frequent  efforts  to  speak  to  the  gathering  multitude.  Such  silent  appeals 
exceed  the  eloquence  of  words ;  they  are  irresistible,  and  something  must 
be  done.  A  small  boat  is  soon  upon  the  bridge,  and  with  a  rope  attached 
sets  out  upon  its  fearless  voyage,  but  is  instantly  sunk.  Another  and 
another  are  tried,  but  they  are  all  swallowed  up  by  the  angry  waters.  A 
large  one  might  possibly  survive;  but  none  is  at  hand.  Away  to  Buflfalo 
a  car  is  dispatched,  and  never  did  the  iron  horse  thunder  along  its  steel- 
bound  track  on  such  a  godlike  mission.  Soon  the  most  competent  life-boat 
is  upon  the  spot.  All  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  object,  as  trembling  and 
tossing  amid  the  boiling  white  waves  it  survives  the  roughest  waters. 
One  breaker  past  and  it  will  have  reached  the  object  of  its  mission.  But 
being  partly  filled  with  water  and  striking  a  sunken  rock,  that  next  wave 
sends  it  hurling  to  the  bottom.  An  involuntary  groan  passes  through  the 
dense  multitude,  and  hope  scarcely  nestles  in  a  single  bosom.  The  sun 
goes  down  in  gloom,  and  as  darkness  comes  on  and  the  crowd  begins  to 
scatter,  methinks  the  angels  looking  over  the  battlements  on  high  drop  a 
tear  of  pity  on  the  scene.  The  silvery  stars  shine  dimly  through  the  cur- 
tain of  blue.  The  multitude  are  gone,  and  the  sufierer  is  left  with  his  God. 
Long  before  morning  he  must  be  swept  over  that  dreadful  abyss ;  he  clings 
to  that  rock  with  all  the. tenacity  of  life,  and  as  he  surveys  the  horrors  of 
his  position,  strange  visions  in  the  air  come  looming  up  before  him.  He 
sees  his  home,  his  wife  and  children  there ;  he  sees  the  home  of  his  child- 
hood; he  sees  that  mother  as  she  used  to  soothe  his  childish  fears  upon 
her  breast ;  he  sees  a  watery  grave,  and  then  the  vision  closes  in  tears. 
In  imagination  he  hears  the  hideous  yells  of  demons,  and  mingled  prayers 
and  curses  die  upon  his  lips. 

No  sooner  does  morning  dawn  than  the  multitude  again  rush  to  tlio 
scene  of  horror.  Soon  a  shout  is  heard :  he  is  there — he  is  still  alive ! 
Just  now  a  carriage  arrives  upon  the  bridge,  and  a  woman  leaps  from  it 
and  rushes  to  the  most  favorable  point  of  observation.  She  had  driveu 
from  Chippewa,  three  miles  above  the  Falls;  her  husband  had  crossed 
the  river,  night  before  last,  and  had  not  returned,  and  she  fears  he  may  be 
clinging  to  that  rock.  All  eyes  are  turned  for  a  moment  toward  the 
anxious  woman,  and  no  sooner  is  a  glass  handed  to  her,  fixed  upon  the 
object    than  she  shrieks,  "Oh,  my  husband!"  and  sinks  senseless  to  the 


236 


THE  SOLDIER'S  PARDON. 


earth.  The  excitement,  before  intense,  seems  now  almost  unendurable, 
and  something  must  again  be  tried.  A  small  raft  is  constructed,  and,  to 
the  surprise  of  all,  swings  up  beside  the  rock  to  which  the  sufferer  has 
clung  for  the  last  forty- eight  hours.  He  instantly  throws  himself  full 
length  upon  it.  Thousands  are  pulling  at  the  end  of  the  rope,  and  with 
skillful  management  a  few  rods  are  gained  toward  the  nearest  shore.  What 
tongue  can  tell,  what  pencil  can  paint,  the  anxiety  with  which  that  little 
bark  is  watched,  as,  trembling  and  tossing  amid  the  roughest  waters,  it 
nears  that  rock-bound  coast  ?  Save  Niagara's  eternal  roar,  all  is  silent  as 
the  grave.  His  wife  sees  it,  and  is  only  restrained  by  force  from  rushing 
into  the  river.  Hope  instantly  springs  into  every  bosom,  but  it  is  only  to 
sink  into  deeper  gloom.  The  angel  of  death  has  spread  his  wings  over  that 
little  bark ;  the  poor  man's  strength  is  almost  gone ;  each  wave  lessens  his 
grasp  more  and  more,  but  all  will  be  safe  if  that  nearest  wave  is  past. 
But  that  next  surging  billow  breaks  his  hold  upon  the  pitching  timbers, 
the  next  moment  hurling  him  to  the  awful  verge,  where,  with  body  erect, 
hands  clenched,  and  eyes  that  are  taking  their  last  look  of  earth,  he  shrieks, 
above  Niagara's  eternal  roar,  "Lost!"  and  sinks  forever  from  the  gaze  of 
man. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  PAEDON. 


JAMES   SMITH. 


LI)  blew  the  gale  in  Gibraltar  one 
night, 
'     As  a  soldier  lay  stretched  in  his 

t       And  anon,  'mid  the   darkness,  the 
II  moon's  silver  light 

I  On  his  countenance  dreamily  fell. 

Nought  could  she  reveal,  but  a  man  true  as 
steel. 
That  oft  for  his  country  had  bled  ; 
And  the  glance  of  his  eye  might  the  grim 
king  defy, 
For  despair,  fear,  and  trembling  liad  fled. 

But  in  rage  lie  liad    struck    a  well -merited 
blow 
At  a  tyrant  who  held  him  in  scorn  ; 
4.nd   his   fate   soon   was    sealed,    for    alas! 
honest  Jfjo 
Was  to  die  on  the  following  morn. 


Oh !  sad  was  the  thought  to  a  man  that  luvd 
fought 
'Mid    the    ranks    of    the    gallant    and 
brave, — 
To  be  shot  througli  the  breast  at  a  coward's 
behest, 
And  laid  low  in  a  criminal's  grave  ! 

The  night  call  had  sounded,  when  Joe  w;ia 
aroused 
By  a  stop  at  the  door  of  his  coll  ; 
'  Twas  a  comrade  with  wIkhu  Iki  iiad  oft«« 
caroused, 
Tliat  now  entered  to  bid  him  farewell. 
"  Ah,    Tom !    is    it   you    come    to    bid    me 
adieu  ? 
'Tis  kind  my  lad  !  give  mo  your  liand  ! 
Nay — nay — don't  get  wiM,  man,  and  make 
me  a  child  ! — 
I'll  bo  soon  in  a  happier  land  1" 


LONDON  CHURCHES. 


237 


With  hands  clasped  in  silence,  Tom  mourn- 
fully said, 
"  Have  you  any  request,  Joe,  to  make  ? — 
Remember  by  me  'twill  be  fully  obeyed : 
Can  I  anything  do  for  your  sake  ?" 
When  it's  over,  to-morrow!"  he  said,  filled 

with  sorrow, 
■'  Send  this  token  to  her  whom  I've  sworn 
All  my  fond  love  to  share  1" — 'twas  a  lock 
of  his  hair, 
And  a  prayer-book,  all  faded  and  worn. 

"  Here's  this  watch    for  my    mother ;     and 
when  you  write  home," 
And  he   dashed   a   bright  tear   from   his 
eye— 
"  Say  I  died  with  my  heart  in  old  Devon- 
shire, Tom, 
Like  a  man,  and  a  soldier !— Good  bye  !" 
Then  the  sergeant  on  guard,  at  the  grating 
appeared. 
And  poor  Tom  had  to  leave  the  cold  cell, 
By  the  moon's  waning  light,  with  a  husky 
"  Good-night ! 
God  be  with  you,   dear    comrade  ! — fare- 
well !" 

Gray  dawned  the  morn  in  a  dull  cloudy  sky, 

When  the  blast  of  a  bugle  resounded  ; 
And  Joe  ever  fearless,  went  forward  to  die, 

By  the  hearts  of  true  heroes  surrounded. 
'Shoulder  arms"  was  the  cry  as  the  pris- 
oner passed  by : 
"  To  the  right   about — march !"   was  the 
word ; 
And  their  pale  faces  proved  how  their  com- 
rade was  loved. 
And  by  all  his  brave  fellows  adored. 


Right  onward  they  marched  to  the  dread 
field  of  doom : 
Sternly  silent,  they  covered  the  ground  ; 
Then  they   formed    into    line   amid  eadnesa 
and  gloom. 
While  the  prisoner  looked  calmly  around. 
Then  soft  on  the  air  rose  tlie  accents  of  prayer, 

And  faint  tolled  the  solemn  death-knell. 
As  he  stood  on  the  sand,  and  with  uplifted 
hand. 
Waved  the  long  and  tl.e  lasting  farewell. 

"  Make  ready !"  exclaimed  an  imperions  voice : 

"  Present !" .struck  a  chill  on 

each  mind ; 
Ere  the  last  word  was  spoke,  Joe  had  cause 
to  rejoice. 
For  "Hold! — hold!"  cried  a  voice  from 
behind. 
Then  wild  was  the  joy  of  them  all,  man  and 
boy, 
As  a  horseman  cried,  "Mercy! — Forbear!" 

With  a  thrilling  "  Hurrah  ! a  free  pardon  ! 

huzzah  !" 

And  the  muskets  rang  loud  in  the  air. 

Soon  the  comrades  were  locked  in  each  other's 
embrace : 
No  more  stood  the  brave  soldiers  dumb  : 
With  a  loud  cheer  they  wheeled  to  the  right- 
about-face, 

Then  away  at  the  sound  of  the  drum ! ■ 

And  a  brighter  day  dawned  in  sweet  Devon's 
fair  land. 
Where  the  lovers  met  never  to  part ; 
And  he  gave  her  a  token — true,  warm,  and 
unbroken — 
The  gift  of  his  own  gallant  heart ! 


LONDON  CHURCHES. 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


STOOD,  one  Sunday  morning, 
Before  a  large  church  door, 
||  The  congregation  gathered 
And  carriages  a  score, — 
From  one  out  stepped  a  lady 
I  oft  had  seen  before. 


Her  hand  was  on  a  prayer-book, 

And  held  a  vinaigrette  ; 

The  sign  of  man's  redemption 

Clear  on  the  book  was  set, — 

But  above  the  Cross  there  glistened 

A  golden  Coronet. 


238 


LONDON  CHURCHES. 


THE   OLD   CUURCU. 


For  hor  tho  obsequious  beadle 
The  inner  door  flung  wide, 
Ligbtly,  as  np  a  ball-room, 
Her  footsteps  seemed  to  glide, — 
Thero  migbt  be  good  thoughts  in  her 
For  all  hor  evil  pride. 

But  aftf-r  her  a  woman 

Peeped  wiHtfully  within 

On  whoso  wan  face  was  graven 


Life's  hardest  discipline, — 
The  trace  of  the  sad  trinity 
Of  weakness,  pain,  and  sin. 

The  few  free-seats  were  crowded 
Where  she  could  rest  and  pray  ; 
With  her  worn  garb  contrasted 
Each  side  in  fair  array, — 
'  Ood's  house  holds  no  poor  sinnerB," 
►She  sighed,  and  crept  away. 


OONSTANTIUS  AND  THE  LION.  £39 


CONSTANTIUS  AND  THE  LION, 


GEORGE  CROLY. 


^^p  POETAL  of  the  arena  opened,  and  the  combatant,  with  a  mantle 
^i^     thrown  over  his  face  and  figure,  was  led  into  the  surroundery. 
"""^^      The  Hon  roared  and  ramped  against  the  bars  of  his  den  at  the 
I'        sight.     The  guard  put  a  sword  and  buckler  into  the  hands  of  the 
I        Christian,  and  he  was  left  alone.     He  drew  the  mantle  from  his 
face,  and  bent  a  slow  and  firm   look  around  the  amphitheatre. 
His  fine  countenance  and  lofty  bearing  raised  a  universal  shout  of  admira- 
tion.    He  might  have  stood  for  an  Apollo  encountering  the  Python.     His 
eye  at  last  turned  on  mine.     Could  I  believe  my  senses  ?     Constantius  was 
before  me. 

All  my  rancor  vanished.  An  hour  past  I  could  have  struck  the  be- 
trayer to  the  heart, — I  could  have  called  on  the  severest  vengeance  of  man 
and  heaven  to  smite  the  destroyer  of  my  child.  But  to  see  him  hopelessly 
doomed,  the  man  whom  I  had  honored  for  his  noble  qualities,  whom  I  had 
even  loved,  whose  crime  was,  at  the  worst,  but  the  crime  of  giving  way  to 
the  strongest  temptation  that  can  bewilder  the  heart  of  man ;  to  see  that 
noble  creature  flung  to  the  savage  beast,  dying  in  tortures,  torn  piecemeal 
before  my  eyes,  and  his  misery  wrought  by  me,  I  would  have  obtested 
heaven  and  earth  to  save  him.  But  my  tongue  cleaved  to  the  roof  of  my 
mouth.  My  limbs  refused  to  stir.  I  would  have  thrown  myself  at  the 
feet  of  ISTero  ;  but  I  sat  like  a  man  of  stone — pale — paralyzed — the  beating 
of  my  pulse  stopped — my  eyes  alone  alive. 

The  gate  of  the  den  was  thrown  back,  and  the  lion  rushed  in  with  a 
roar  and  a  bound  that  bore  him  half  across  the  arena.  I  saw  the  sword 
glitter  in  the  air :  when  it  waved  again,  it  was  covered  with  blood.  A 
howl  told  that  the  blow  had  been  driven  home.  The  lion,  one  of  the  lar- 
gest from  Nuraidia,  and  made  furious  by  thirst  and  hunger,  an  animal  of 
prodigious  power,  crouched  for  an  instant,  as  if  to  make  sure  of  his  prey, 
crept  a  few  paces  onward,  and  sprang  at  the  victim's  throat.  He  was  met 
by  a  second  wound,  but  his  impulse  was  irresistible.  A  cry  of  natural 
horror  rang  round  the  amphitheatre.  The  struggle  was  now  for  an 
instant,  life  or  death.  They  rolled  over  each  other ;  the  lion,  reared  upon 
his  hind  feet,  with  gnashing  teeth  and  distended  talons,  plunged  on  the 
man ;  again  they  rose  together.  Anxiety  was  now  at  its  wildest  height. 
The  sword  now  swung  around  the  champion's  head  in  bloody  circles.  They 
fell  again,  covered  with  blood  and  dust.     The  hand  of  Constantius  had 


240  CONSTANTIUS  AND  THE  LION. 


grasped  the  lion's  mane,  and  the  fiu'ious  bounds  of  the  monster  could  not 
loose  his  hold ;  but  his  strength  was  evidently  giving  way, — he  still  struck 
his  terrible  blows,  but  each  was  weaker  than  the  one  before  ;  till,  collecting 
his  whole  force  for  a  last  effort,  he  darted  one  mighty  blow  into  the  lion's 
throat,  and  sank.  The  savage  beast  yelled,  and  spouting  out  blood,  fled 
howHng  around  the  arena.  But  the  hand  still  grasped  the  mane,  and  the 
conqueror  was  dragged  whirling  through  the  dust  at  his  heels.  A  uni- 
versal outcry  now  arose  to  save  him,  if  he  were  not  already  dead.  But 
the  lion,  though  bleeding  from  every  vein,  was  still  too  terrible,  and  all 
shrank  from  the  hazard.  At  last  the  grasp  gave  way,  and  the  body  lay 
motionless  on  the  ground. 

What  happened  for  some  moments  after,  I  know  not.  There  was  a 
struggle  at  the  portal ;  a  female  forced  her  way  through  the  guards,  and 
fluncy  herself  upon  the  victim.  The  sight  of  a  new  prey  roused  the  lion  ; 
he  tore  the  ground  with  his  talons ;  he  lashed  his  streaming  sides  with  his 
tail ;  he  lifted  up  his  mane  and  bared  his  fangs ;  but  his  approaching  was 
no  longer  with  a  bound;  he  dreaded  the  sword,  and  came  snuffing  the 
blood  on  the  sand,  and  stealing  round  the  body  in  circuits  still 
diminishing. 

The  confusion  in  the  vast  assemblage  was  now  extreme.  Voices 
innumerable  called  for  aid.  Women  screamed  and  fainted,  men  burst  into 
indiofnant  clamors  at  this  prolonged  cruelty.  Even  the  hard  hearts  of  the 
populace,  accustomed  as  they  were  to  the  sacrifice  of  life,  were  roused  to 
honest  curses.  The  guards  grasped  their  arms,  and  waited  but  for  a  sign 
from  the  emperor.     But  Nero  gave  no  sign. 

I  looked  upon  the  woman's  face  ;  it  was  Salome !  I  sprang  upon  my 
feet.  I  called  on  her  name, — called  on  her,  by  every  feeling  of  nature,  to 
fly  from  that  place  of  death,  to  come  to  my  arms,  to  think  of  the  agonies 
of  all  that  loved  her. 

She  had  raised  the  head  of  Constantius  on  her  knee,  and  was  wiping 
the  pale  visage  with  hor  hair.  At  the  sound  of  my  voice,  she  looked  up, 
and,  calmly  cariting  back  the  locks  from  her  forohoad,  fixed  her  eyes  upon 
me.  She  still  knelt;  one  hand  supported  tho  In-ad, — with  the  other  she 
pointed  to  it  as  her  only  answer.  I  again  adjured  hoi-.  There  wa.s  the 
BilencG  of  death  among  the  thousands  around  mo.  A  fire  flashed  into  hor 
eye, — her  cheek  burned, — .she  waved  her  hand  with  an  air  of  su])irb 
sorrow. 

"  I  am  como  to  die,"  she  uttered,  in  a  lofty  tone.  "  This  bkieding  body 
luos  niy  husljand, — I  have  no  father.  The  world  contains  to  mo  but  tliis 
clay  in  my  arms.     Yet,"  and  she  ki-sscd  the  ashy  lips  before  her,  "  yet,  my 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 


241, 


Constantius,  it  was  to  save  that  father  that  your  generous  heart  defied  the 
peril  of  this  hour.  It  was  to  redeem  him  from  the  hand  of  evil  that  you 
abandoned  your  quiet  home ! — Yes,  cruel  father,  here  lies  the  noble  being 
that  threw  open  your  dungeon,  that  led  you  safe  through  the  conflagration, 
that,  to  the  last  moment  of  his  liberty,  only  sought  how  he  might  serve 
and  protect  you.  Tears  at  length  fell  in  floods  from  her  eyes.  "  But," 
said  she,  in  a  tone  of  wild  power,  "  he  was  betrayed,  and  may  the  Power 
whose  thunders  avenge  the  cause  of  his  people,  pour  down  just  retribution 
upon  the  head  that  dared  " — 

I  heard  my  own  condemnation  about  to  be  pronounced  by  the  lips  of 
my  own  child.  "Wound  up  to  the  last  degree  of  suffering,  I  tore  my  hair, 
leaped  upon  the  bars  before  me,  and  plunged  into  the  arena  by  her  side, 
The  height  stunned  me  ;  I  tottered  a  few  paces  and  fell.  The  lion  gave  a  roar 
and  sprang  upon  me.  I  lay  helpless  under  him,  I  heard  the  gnashing  of 
his  white  fangs  above. 

An  exulting  shout  arose.  I  saw  him  reel  as  if  struck, — gore  filled 
his  jaws.  Another  mighty  blow  was  driven  to  his  heart.  He  sprang  high 
in  the  air  with  a  howl.  He  dropped  ;  he  was  dead.  The  amphitheatre 
thundered  with  acclamations. 

With  Salome  clinging  to  my  bosom,  Constantius  raised  me  from  the 
ground.  The  roar  of  the  lion  had  roused  him  from  his  swoon,  and  two 
blows  saved  me.  The  falchion  had  broken  in  the  heart  of  the  monster. 
The  whole  multitude  stood  up,  supplicating  for  our  lives  in  the  name  of 
filial  piety  and  heroism.  Nero,  devil  as  he  was,  dared  not  resist  the 
strength  of  popular  feeling.  He  waved  a  signal  to  the  guards  ;  the  portal 
was  opened,  and  my  children,  sustaining  my  feeble  steps,  showered  wiib 
garlands  from  innumerable  hands,  slowly  led  me  from  the  ajrena. 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 


fyTViELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
pJLU         Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! 
4;^S:^    For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

X  And  things  are    not  what  they 

I  seem. 

Life  is  real !  Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest. 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 


HENEY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting. 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  br&YeL 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 


242 


TO  NIGHT. 


In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 


And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ;- 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


''BLESSED  ABE  THEY  THAT  MOUBN." 


%*■ 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 


T>EEM  rot  they  are  blest  alone 
Whose  lives  a  peaceful  tenor  keep; 

The    Power    who  pities    man    has 
shown 
A  blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 

The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 
The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears  ; 

And  weary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 
Are  [iromises  of  happier  years. 


There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night ; 

And  grief  may  bide  an  evening  guest. 
But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 


And  thou,  who,  o'er  thj'  friend's  low  bier, 
Sheddest  the  bitter  drops  like  rain, 

Hope  that  a  brighter,  happier  sphere 
Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  again. 

Nor  let  the  good  man's  trust  depart. 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  den)^ — 

Though  with  a  pierced  and  bleeding  heart, 
And  spurned  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 

For  God  hath  marked  each  sorrowing  day. 

And  numbered  every  secret  tear. 
And  heaven's  long  ago  of  bliss  shall  pay 

For  all  his  children  suffer  here. 


TO  NIGHT 


PEllCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY. 


^^^VIFTLY  walk  over  tho  wostcrn  wave, 

|j^'  S[.irit  of  Night! 

'  lilt  of  tho  misty  ca-stern  cave. 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Tlion  weavest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  mako  theo  terriblo  and  dear, — 
Swift  bfl  thy  flight  1 


J 


Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought! 
Blind  with  thy  hair  tho  eyes  of  day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  1)0  wearied  out, 
Tlion  wander  o'<!r  city,  and  sea,  luid  l.imi, 
Touching  all  witli  thiiin  opiate  wand  — 

Como,  long-sought! 


>'!-- 


SNOW-FLAK  EB. 


243 


When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee ! 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  floor  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest. 
Lingering,  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee ! 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouldst  thou  me  ? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 


Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 
Wouldst  thou  me  ? — and  I  replied, 
No,  not  thee! 


Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead. 

Soon,  too  soon, — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon ! 


BURIED  TO-DAY. 


DINAH    MARIA   MULOCK. 


URIED  to-day. 
When  the  soft  green  buds  are  burst- 
^^3^  ing  out, 

jj  I  And  up  on  the  south-wind  comes  a 

el  shout 

W     Of  village  boys  and  girls  at  play 
j      In  the  mild  spring  evening  gray. 

Taken  away 

Sturdy  of  heart  and  stout  of  limb, 
From  eyes  that  drew  half  their  light  from 
him. 
And  put  low,  low  underneath  the  clay. 
In  his  spring, — on  this  spring  day. 


Passes  away, 

All  the  pride  of  boy -life  begun, 
All  the  hope  of  life  yet  to  run ; 

^Vho    dares    to    question    when    One 
"Nay." 

Murmur  not, — only  pray. 

Enters  to-day 

Another  body  in  churchyard  sod. 
Another  soul  on  the  life  in  God, 

His  Christ  was  buried — and  lives  alway : 

Trust  Him,  and  go  your  way. 


ia.th 


SNOW-FLAKES. 


HARRIET  B.   M  KEEVER. 


BEAUTIFUL  snow !  beautiful  snow ! 
Falling  so  lightly, 
Daily  and  nightly. 
Alike  round  the   dwelling  of  lofty 
and  low. 
Horses  are  prancing, 
Children  are  dancing, 
Stirr'd  by  the  spirit  that  comes  with 
the  snow. 


Beautiful  snow !  beautiful  snow ! 
Atmosphere  chilling. 
Carriage  wheels  stilling, 


Warming  the  cold  earth,  and  kindling  the 
glow 
Of  Christian  pity 
For  the  great  city. 
For  wretched  creatures,  who  freeze  'mid  the 
snow. 


Beautiful  snow  !  beautiful  snow ! 
Fierce  the  wind  blowing, 
Deep  the  drifts  strowing. 
Night  gathers  round  us,  how  warm  the  red 
glow 


244 


THE  OLD  WIFE'S  KISS. 


Of  the  fire  so  bright, 
On  the  cold  winter  night, 
As  we  draw  in  the  curtains,  to  shut  out  the 


Beautiful  snow !  beautiful  snow 
Round  the  dear  fireside, 


In  that  sweet  eventide, 
Closely  we  gather,  though   keen   the  wind 
blow, 

Safely  defended, 

Kindly  befriended. 
Pity  the  houseless,  exposed  to  the  snow. 


THE  OLD  WIFE'S  KISS. 


•HE  funeral  services  were  ended;  and  as  the  voice  of  prayer  ceased, 

^1^      tears  were  hastily  wiped  from  wet  cheeks,  and  long-drawn  sighs 

^riT^        relieved  suppressed  and  choking  sobs,  as  the  mourners  prepared 

to  take  leave  of  the  corpse.     It  was  an  old  man  who  lay  there, 

^     robed  for  the  grave.     More  than  three-score  years  had  whitened  those 

locks,  and  furrowed  that  brow,  and  made  those  stiflf  limbs  weary  of 

life's  journey,  and  the  more  willing  to  be  at  rest  where  weariness  is  no 

longer  a  burden. 

The  aged  have  few  to  weep  for  them  when  they  die.  The  most  of  those 
who  would  have  mourned  their  loss  have  gone  to  the  grave  before  them  ; 
harps  that  would  have  sighed  sad  harmonies  are  shattered  and  gone  ;  and 
the  few  that  remain  are  looking  cradleward,  rather  than  to  life's  closing 
goal ;  are  bound  to  and  living  in  the  generation  rising,  more  than  in  the 
generation  departing.  Youth  and  beauty  have  many  admirers  while 
living, — have  many  mourners  when  dying, — and  many  tearful  ones  bend 
over  their  coffined  clay,  many  sad  hearts  follow  in  their  funeral  train !  but 
age  ha.s  few  admirers,  few  mourners. 

This  was  an  old  man,  and  the  circle  of  mourners  was  small :  two 
cliildrcn,  who  had  themselves  passed  the  middle  of  life,  and  who  had 
children  of  their  own  to  care  for  and  be  cared  for  by  them.  Beside  these, 
and  a  few  friends  who  had  seen  and  visited  him  while  he  was  sick,  and 
possibly  had  known  him  for  a  few  years,  there  were  none  others  to  shed 
a  tear,  except  his  old  wife ;  and  of  this  small  company,  the  old  wife 
aeemcd  to  be  the  only  heart-mourner.  It  is  respectful  for  his  friends 
to  be  sad  a  few  moments,  till  the  service  is  performed  and  the  hearse  is 
out  of  sight.  It  is  very  proper  and  suitable  for  children,  who  have  out- 
grown the  fervency  and  affection  of  youth,  to  shed  tears  when  an  aged 
parent  says  farewell,  and  lies  down  to  quiet  slumber.  Some  regrets, 
some  recollection  of  the  past,  some  transitory  griefs,  and  the  pangs  are 
over. 


THE  OLD  WIFE'S  KISS.  245 


The  old  wife  arose  with  difficulty  from  her  seat,  and  went  to  the 
coffin  to  look  her  last  look — to  take  her  last  farewell.  Through  the  fast 
falling  tears  she  gazed  long  and  fondly  down  into  the  pale,  unconscious 
face.  What  did  she  see  there  ?  Others  saw  nothing  but  the  rigid  features 
of  the  dead ;  she  saw  more.  In  every  wrinkle  of  that  brow  she  read  the 
history  of  years ;  from  youth  to  manhood,  from  manhood  to  old  age,  in 
joy  and  sorrow,  in  sickness  and  health,  it  was  all  there  ;  when  those  chil- 
dren, who  had  not  quite  outgrown  the  sympathies  of  childhood,  were 
infants  lying  on  her  bosom,  and  every  year  since  then — there  it  was.  To 
others  those  dull,  mute  monitors  were  unintelligible ;  to  her  they  were 
the  alphabet  of  the  heart,  familiar  as  household  words. 

Then  the  future  :  "  What  will  become  of  me?  What  shall  I  do  now?" 
She  did  not  say  so,  but  she  felt  it.  The  prospect  of  the  old  wife  is  clouded ; 
the  home  circle  is  broken,  never  to  be  reunited ;  the  visions  of  the  hearth- 
stone are  scattered  forever.  Up  to  that  hour  there  was  a  home  to  which 
the  heart  always  turned  with  fondness.  That  magic  is  now  sundered,  the 
key-stone  of  that  sacred  arch  has  fallen,  and  home  is  nowhere  this  side  of 
heaven  !  Shall  she  gather  up  the  scattered  fragments  of  the  broken  arch, 
make  them  her  temple  and  her  shrine,  sit  down  in  her  chill  solitude  beside 
its  expiring  fires,  and  die  ?     What  shall  she  do  now  ? 

They  gently  crowded  her  away  from  the  dead,  and  the  undertaker  came 
forward,  with  the  coffin-lid  in  his  hand.  It  is  all  right  and  pi'oper,  of  course, 
it  must  be  done  ;  but  to  the  heart-mourner  it  brings  a  kind  of  shudder,  a 
thrill  of  agony.  The  undertaker  stood  for  a  moment,  with  a  decent  pro- 
priety, not  wishing  to  manifest  rude  haste,  but  evidently  desirous  of  being 
as  expeditious  as  possible.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  close  the  coffin,  the  old 
wife  turned  back,  and  stooping  down,  imprinted  one  long,  last  kiss  upon 
the  cold  lips  of  her  dead  husband,  then  staggered  to  her  seat,  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  the  closing  coffin  hid  him  from  her  sight  forever ! 

That  kiss !  fond  token  of  affection,  and  of  sorrow,  and  memory,  and 
farewell !  I  have  seen  many  kiss  their  dead,  many  such  seals  of  love  upon 
clay-cold  lips,  but  never  did  I  see  one  so  purely  sad,  so  simply  heart- 
touching  and  hopeless  as  that.  Or,  if  it  had  hope,  it  was  that  which  loolcs 
beyond  coffins,  and  charnel-houses,  and  damp,  dark  tombs,  to  the  joys  of  the 
home  above.  You  would  kiss  the  cold  cheek  of  infiincy ;  there  is  poetry;  it  is 
beauty  hushed;  there  is  romance  there,  for  the  faded  flower  is  still  beauti- 
ful. In  childhood  the  heart  yields  to  the  stroke  of  sorrow,  but  recoils 
again  with  elastic  faith,  buoyant  with  hope  ;  but  here  Wiis  no  beauty,  no 
poetry,  no  romance. 

The  heart  of  the  old  wife  was  like  the  weary  swimmer,  whose  strength 
19 


246 


MAIDENHOOD. 


has  often  raised  him  above  the  stormy  waves,  but  now,  exhausted,  sinks 
amid  the  surges.  The  temple  of  her  earthly  hopes  had  fallen,  and  what 
was  there  left  for  her  but  to  sit  down  in  despondency,  among  its  lonely 
ruins,  and  weep  and  die  !  or,  in  the  spirit  of  a  better  hope,  await  the 
dawning  of  another  day,  when  a  Hand  divine  shall  gather  its  sacred  dust, 
»nd  rebuild  for  immortahty  its  broken  walls ! 


MAIDENHOOD. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


■^  AIDEN !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
i  In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 


Standing  with  reluctant  feet. 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  llie  river's  broad  expanse ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 
Ab  the  river  of  a  dream ! 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision. 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by. 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye. 
Seen  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

O,  thou  child  of  many  [)rayerH! 

Life  hath  quicksands,— Life  hatii  snares 

Ca>-e  and  age  come  unawares  I 

B<ar  a  lily  in  thy  hand  ; 

Gates  of  brasH  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 


Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 


In  thy  heart  the  dow  of  y*"itli 
(Jii  tliy  lijiM  til'!  siuil'^  (if  truth. 


THE  BROOK  SIDE. 


247 


THE  BROOK  SIDE. 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


WANDERED  by  the  brook  side, 

I  wandered  by  the  mill  ; 
I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 
There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird  ; 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 


He  came  not — no  he  came  not ; 

The  night  came  on  alone ; 
The  little  stars  sat,  one  by  one, 

Each  on  his  golden  throne : 
The  evening  wind  passed  by  my  cheek, 

The  leaves  above  were  stirred  ; 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 


I  (ut  beneath  the  elm-tree ; 

I  watched  the  long,  long  shade. 
And  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid  ; 
For  I  listened  for  a  footfall, 

I  listened  for  a  word ; 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 


Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 

When  something  stood  behind ; 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 

I  knew  its  touch  was  kind: 
It  drew  me  nearer — nearer. 

We  did  not  speak  a  word ; 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  heart* 

Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


248 


ZEPH  HIGGINS'  CONFESSION. 


THE  CATARACT  OF  LOBORE. 


ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 


|ir^OW  does  the  water 
ijff^  Come  down  at  Lodore  ? 

f  -v1 


From  it-      li.   •     -.vhich  well 
In  the  taiu  ou  the  fell ; 
From  its  fouatains 


In  the  mountains, 

Its  rills  and  its  gilla ; 

Through  moss  and  through  brakf 

It  runs  and  it  creeps, 

For  a  while,  till  it  sleeps 

In  its  own  little  lake. 

And  thence  at  departing, 
Awakening  and  starting. 

It  runs  through  the  reedi, 

And  away  it  proceeds. 
Through  meadow  and  glade, 
In  sun  and  in  shade. 
And  through  the  wood-shelter. 

Among  crags  in  its  flurry, 
Helter-skelter, 

Hurry-skurry. 

Here  it  comes  sparkling, 
And  there  it  lies  darkling  ; 
Now  smoking  and  frothing, 
Its  tumult  and  wrath  in. 
Till,  in  this  rapid  race. 

On  which  it  is  bent. 
It  reaches  the  place 

Of  its  steep  descent. 


ZEPii  inaruNS^  confession. 

HARRIET    REECHER   STOWE. 

Z*ph  IIl^'KlnH  wa«  quarrelHom.-,  .xa.ting.  un-l  ntuM.oru  to  8uc).  •  degree  that  he  wm  repulnive  w  th, 
011»Ko  „e..,.l.  Hi.  flrHt  r.-al  tnn.l.le  can.o  In  the  death  of  hl«  loving,  patient  wife-whc««  la«t  r,.,uc«  ww 
Ifcttt  he  would  iMit  away  all  hard  teelingB,  and  n.ako  up  his  old  feud  with  the  church. 

FROM    "  I'OOANUO    PKOPLK." 

iOTHING  could  be  rougher  and  more  rustic   than  the  old  achool- 

■     liouae,— its  walls  hung  with  cobwebs ;  its  rude  slab  benches  and 

desks' hfuk.'d  by  in^niy  'i  schooolboy's  knife;  the  i)lain,  ink-stained 

pine  table  before  the  minister,  with  its  two  tallow  candles,  whose 


ZEPH  HIGGINS'  CONFESSION.  249 

Aim  rays  scarcely  gave  light  enough  to  read  the  hymns.  There  wa:i 
nothing  outward  to  express  the  real  greatness  of  what  was  there  in 
reality. 

From  the  moment  the  Doctor  entered  he  was  conscious  of  a  present 
Power.  There  was  a  hush,  a  stillness,  and  the  words  of  his  prayer  seemed 
to  go  out  into  an  atmosphere  thrilling  with  emotion,  and  when  he  rose  to 
speak  he  saw  the  countenances  of  his  parishioners  with  that  change  upon 
them  which  comes  from  the  waking  up  of  the  soul  to  higher  things.  Hard, 
weather-beaten  faces  were  enkindled  and  eager  ;  every  eye  was  fixed  upon 
him ;  every  word  he  spoke  seemed  to  excite  a  responsive  emotion. 

The  Doctor  read  from  the  Old  Testament  the  story  of  Achan.  He 
told  how  the  host  of  the  Lord  had  turned  back  because  there  was  one  in 
the  camp  who  had  secreted  in  his  tent  an  accursed  thing.  He  asked, 
"  can  it  be  now  and  here,  among  us  who  profess  to  be  Christians,  that  we 
are  secreting  in  our  hearts  some  accursed  thing  that  prevents  the  good 
Spirit  of  the  Lord  from  working  among  us?  Is  it  our  hard  feeling 
against  a  brother  ?  Is  there  anything  that  we  know  to  be  wrong  that  we 
refuse  to  make  right — anything  that  we  know  belongs  to  God  that  we  are 
withholding  ?  If  we  Christians  lived  as  high  as  we  ought,  if  we  lived  up 
to  our  professions,  would  there  be  any  sinners  unconverted  ?  Let  us 
beware  how  we  stand  in  the  way.  If  the  salt  have  lost  its  savor  where- 
with  shall  it  be  salted  ?  Oh,  my  brethren,  let  us  not  hinder  the  work  of 
God.  I  look  around  on  this  circle  and  I  miss  the  face  of  a  sister  who  was 
always  here  to  help  us  with  her  prayers ;  now  she  is  with  thu  general 
assembly  and  church  of  the  first-born,  whose  names  are  written  in 
heaven,  with  the  spirits  of  the  just  made  perfect.  But  her  soul  will  rejoice 
with  the  angels  of  God  if  she  looks  down  and  sees  us  all  coming 
up  to  where  we  ought  to  be.  God  grant  that  her  prayers  may  be 
fulfilled  in  us.  Let  us  examine  ourselves,  brethren;  let  us  cast  out  the 
stumbling-block,  that  the  way  of  the  Lord  may  be  prepared." 

The  words,  simple  in  themselves,  became  powerful  by  the  atmosphere 
of  deep  feeling  into  which  they  were  uttered ;  there  were  those  solemn 
pauses,  that  breathless  stillness,  those  repressed  breathings,  that  magnetio 
sympathy  that  unites  souls  under  the  power  of  one  overshadowing  con- 
viction. 

When  tne  Doctor  sat  down,  suddenly  there  was  a  slight  movement, 
and  from  a  dark  back  seat  rose  the  gaunt  form  of  Zeph  Higgins.  He  was 
deathly  pale,  and  his  form  trembled  with  emotion.  Every  eye  was  fixed 
upon  him,  and  people  drew  in  their  breath,  with  involuntary  surprise  and 
suspense. 


250  ?^ETH  HIGGINS'  CONFESSION. 

"  "Wal,  I  must  speak,"  he  said.  "  Tm  a  stumbling-block.  I've  allcra 
been  one.  I  hain't  never  ben  a  Christian,  that's  jest  the  truth  on't.  1 
never  hed  oughter  'a'ben  in  the  church.  I've  ben  all  wrong — wrong — 
WRONG !  I  knew  I  was  wrong,  but  I  wouldn't  give  up.  It's  ben  jest  my 
xwful  WILL.  I've  set  up  my  will  agin  God  Almighty.  I've  set  it  agin  my 
neighbors — agin  the  minister  and  agin  the  church.  And  now  the  Lord's 
come  out  agin  me ;  He's  struck  me  down.  I  know  He's  got  a  right — He 
can  do  what  He  pleases — but  I  ain't  resigned — not  a  grain.  I  submit  'cause 
I  can't  help  myself;  but  my  heart's  hard  and  wicked.  I  expect  my  day 
of  grace  is  over.  I  ain't  a  Christian,  and  I  can't  be,  and  I  shall  go  to  hell 
at  last,  and  sarve  me  right !" 

And  Zeph  sat  down,  grim  and  stony,  and  the  neighbors  looked  one  on 
another  in  a  sort  of  consternation.  There  was  a  terrible  earnestness  in 
those  words  that  seemed  to  appall  every  one  and  prevent  any  from  uttering 
the  ordinary  commonplaces  of  religious  exhortation.  For  a  few  moments 
the  circle  was  silent  as  the  grave,  when  Dr.  Cushing  said,  "  Brethren,  let 
us  pray ;"  and  in  his  prayer  he  seemed  to  rise  above  earth  and  draw  his 
whole  flock,  with  all  their  sins,  and  needs,  and  wants,  into  the  presence- 
chamber  of  heaven. 

He  prayed  that  the  light  of  heaven  might  shine  into  the  darkened 
spirit  of  their  brother ;  that  he  might  give  himself  up  utterly  to  the  will 
of  God ;  that  we  might  all  do  it,  that  we  might  become  as  little  children 
in  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  With  the  wise  tact  which  distinguished  his 
ministry  ho  closed  the  meeting  immediately  after  the  prayer  with  one  or 
two  serious  words  of  exhortation.  He  feared  lest  what  had  been  gained 
in  impression  might  be  talked  away  did  he  hold  the  meeting  open  to  tho 
well-meant,  sincere,  but  uninstructed  efforts  of  the  brethren  to  meet  a  case 
like  that  which  had  been  laid  open  before  them. 

After  the  service  was  over  and  the  throng  slowly  diH])orscd,  Zeph 
remained  in  his  place,  rigid  and  still.  One  or  two  approached  to  speak 
to  him;  there  was  in  facta  tide  of  genuine  sympathy  and  brotherly  feeling 
that  longed  to  express  itself.  He  might  have  been  caught  up  in  tliis 
powerful  current  and  borne  into  a  haven  of  peace,  had  he  becni  oik^  to  trust 
Limsolf  to  the  help  of  others ;  but  he  looked  neither  to  tho  right  nor  to 
the  left;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  floor  ;  his  brown,  bony  hands  held  liis 
old  straw  hat  in  a  crushing  grasp;  his  whole  attitude  and  aspect  were 
repelling  and  stern  to  such  a  degree  that  none  dared  address  him. 

The  crowd  slowly  passed  on  and  out.  Ze[)h  sat  alone,  as  li<!  thought; 
but  tho  minister,  his  wife,  and  little  Dolly  had  remained  at  the  upper  end 
of  the   room.     Suddenly,  as   if  sent   by  an    irresistible   impulse,  Dolly 


RESIGNATION. 


251 


stepped  rapidly  down  the  room  and  with  eager  gaze  laid  her  pretty  little 
timid  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  crying,  in  a  voice  tremulous  at  once  with 
fear  and  with  intensity,  "  0,  why  do  you  say  that  you  cannot  be  a 
Christian  ?     Don't  you  know  that  Christ  loves  you  ?" 

Christ  loves  you  !  The  words  thrilled  through  his  soul  with  a  strange, 
new  power;  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  astonished  into  the  little 
earnest,  pleading  face. 

"  Christ  loves  you,"  she  repeated;  "oh,  do  believe  it!" 

*'  Loves  me  !"  he  said,  slowly.     "  Why  should  He  ?" 

"But  He  does  ;  He  loves  us  all.  He  died  for  us.  He  died  for  you. 
Oh,  believe  it.  He'll  help  you ;  He'll  make  you  feel  right.  Only  trust 
Him.     Please  say  you  will !" 

Zeph  looked  at  the  little  face  earnestly,  in  a  softened,  wondering  way. 
A  tear  slowly  stole  down  his  hard  cheek. 

"  Thank'e,  dear  child,"  he  said. 

"You  will  believe  it?" 

"  I'll  try." 

"  You  will  trust  Him  ?" 

Zeph  paused  a  moment,  then  rose  up  with  a  new  and  different  expres- 
sion in  his  face,  and  said,  in  a  subdued  and  earnest  voice,  "  /  will." 

"  Amen  !"  said  the  Doctor,  who  stood  listening ;  and  he  silently 
grasped  the  old  man's  hand. 


RESIGNATION. 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


?TIERE  is  no  flock,  however  watched 
and  tended, 
But  one  dead  lamb  is  there ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  de- 
fended, 
But  has  one  vacant  chair ! 


The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Eachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient !     These  severe  afllictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise. 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictiona 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 


We  see  but  dimly   through   the   mists   anc 
vapors ;  ^ 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapere 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death !     What  seems  so  is  trao 
sition : 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead, — the  child  of  our  aiffection,— . 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection. 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 


252 


ENOCH  ARDEN  AT  THE  WINDOW. 


in  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollu- 
tion, 

She  lives  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air ; 
Year  after  yea"-,  her  tender  steps  pursuing. 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives. 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  un- 
spoken. 

May  reach  her  w-here  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her  ; 
For  when  with  raptures  wild 


In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 
She  will  not  be  a  child : 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though,  at  times,  impetuous  with  emotioa 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the 
ocean. 

That  cannot  be  at  rest, — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


ENOCH  ARDEN  AT  THE  WINDOW. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 


J?UT  Enocli  yearned  to  see  her  face 
jmik  a^ain ; 

iJ"  "  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face 
'i  again 

And  know  that  she  is  happy."     So 
the  thought 
Haunted  and  harassed  him    and  drove 
him  forth 
At  evening  when  the  dull  November  day 
Wa."!  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below : 
There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll  upon  him 
TJnH[ieakable  for  sadness.     By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortalde  light. 
Far-blazing  from  the  roar  of  Philip's  house, 
Allured  him,  a"*  the  b<>acon-b]a/.f!  allures 
The  bird  of  pasnago,  till  he  ma<lly  strike 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For  rhilii''H  dwelling  fronted  on  the  street. 
The  latest  houHo  to  landward  ;  but  behind, 
With  one  small  gate  that  ojioned  on  the  waste, 
Flourished  a  little  garden  square  and  walled  : 


And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yew-tree,  and  all  around  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it : 
But  Enoch  shunned  the  middle  walk  and  stole 
Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew  ;  and  thence 
That  which  he  better  might  have  shunned,  if 

griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnished  board 
Sparkled  and  shone  ;  so  genial  was  the  hearth; 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
Piiilip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 
Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his  knees-, 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Leo, 
Fair-haired  and    tall,   and   from    her    liflod 

hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  .a  ring 
To  tempt   the  babe,  who   reared   his  creaij 

arms. 
Caught   at   and    ever    missed    it,    au'l     thef 

laugheil : 
And  on  the  left  hau'l  nf  tlie  hearth  he  saw 


o 


c 

\r. 

K 

•— ' 

r> 

'}-. 

:r; 

X 

X 

C 

" 

?« 

^ 

> 

p. 

H 

3 

r> 

5' 

ffi 

:fq 

^ 

— 

> 

'< 

r^ 

p 

pi 

W 

c 

/C 

H 

O 

i« 

,   , 

^^ 

•> 

5C 

CO 

M 

50 

THE  FISHER'S  COTTAGE. 


253 


The  mother  glancing  often  at  her  babe, 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with  him, 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and  strong. 
And  saying  that  which   pleased  him,  for   he 
smiled. 

Now   when   the  dead    man   come  to   life 

beheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the  babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father's  knee. 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  happiness, 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful, 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  place. 
Lord  of  ilia  rights  and  of  his  children's  love, — 
Then  he,  though  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him 

all, 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than  things 

heard, 


Staggered  and  shook,  holding  the  branch, 

and  feared 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry, 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of  doom, 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the  hearth. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a  thief, 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  underfoot, 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall. 
Lest   he  should  swoon   and  tumble  and   oe 

found. 
Crept  to  the  gate,  and  opened  it,  and  clcsed, 
As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber-door. 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but  that 
his  knees 
Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he  dug 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  prayed 


THE  FISHEES  COTTAGE. 


HENRY  HEINE,    TRANSLATED  BY  CHARLES  G.  LELAND. 


l^pSE  sat  by  the  fisher's  cottage, 

And  looked  at  the  stormy  tide  ; 
i*%^^^  The  evening  mist  came  rising, 
^^^;i^        And  floating  far  and  wide. 

J.       One  by  one  in  the  lighthouse 
J  The  lamps  shone  out  on  high  ; 

And  far  on  the  dim  horizon 
A  ship  went  sailing  by. 


We  spoke  of  storm  and  shipwreck,— 
Of  sailors,  and  how  they  live  ; 

Of  journeys  'twixt  sky  and  water. 
And  the  sorrows  ami  joys  they  give 

We  spoke  of  distant  countries, 
In  regions  strange  and  fair, 

And  of  the  wondrous  beings 
And  curious  customs  there ; 


254 


MISS  EDITH  HELPS  THINGS  ALONG. 


Of  perfumed  lamps  on  the  Ganges, 

Which  are  launched  in  the  twilight  hour  ; 

And  the  dark  and  silent  Brahmins, 
Who  worship  the  lotos  flower. 

Of  the  wretched  dwarfs  of  Lapland, — 
Broad-headed,  wide-mouthed,  and  small, — 


Who  crouch  round  their  oil  fires,  cooking. 
And  chatter  and  scream  and  bawl. 

And  the  maidens  earnestly  listened, 
Till  at  last  we  spoke  no  more  ; 

The  ship  like  a  shadow  had  vanished, 
And  darkness  fell  deep  on  the  shore. 


SERVANT  OF  GOD,   WELL  DONE. 


Suggested  by  the  sudden  death  of  tho  Rev.  Thomas  Taylor,  who  had  preached  the  previous  eveaic 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


^ERVANT  of  God,  well  done; 

Rest  from  thy  loved  employ  ; 
^  The  battle  fought,  the  victory  won, 
Enter  thy  master's  joy." 
The  voice  at  midnight  came ; 

He  started  up  to  hear, 
A  mortal  arrow  pierced  his  frame ; 
He  fell, — but  felt  no  fear. 


Tranquil  amidst  alarms, 

It  found  him  in  the  field, 
A  veteran  .slumbering  on  his  arms. 

Beneath  his  red-cross  shield : 
His  Bword  was  in  his  hand. 

Still  warm  with  recent  fight ; 
Ready  that  moment,  at  command, 

Through  rock  and  steel  to  smite. 


At  midnight  came  the  cry, 

"  To  meet  thy  God  prepare !  " 
He  woke, — and  caught  the  Captain's  eye 

Then  strong  in  faith  and  prayer, 
His  spirit,  with  a  bound. 

Burst  its  encumbering  clay ; 
His  tent  at  sunrise,  on  the  ground, 

A  darkened  ruin  lay. 

The  pains  of  death  are  past. 

Labor  and  sorrow  cease  ; 
And  life's  long  warfare  closed  at  last, 

His  soul  is  found  in  peace. 
Soldier  of  Christ !  well  done  ; 

Praise  be  thy  new  employ ; 
And  while  eternal  ages  run. 

Rest  in  thy  Saviour's  joy. 


MLSS  EDITH  HELPS  THINGS  ALONG. 


F.  BRET   HARTE. 


HJHter'll  be  down  in  a  minute,  and 

Hays  you're  to  wait,  if  you  please; 

V  ',       ..  \nd  says  I  might  stay  till  she  came, 

"^'i  • '*      '^  ^  '^  i)roiniHO  her  never  to  toaso, 

]       Nor  spnak  till  you  spoke  to  mo  first. 

T   But  that's  nonsonso  ;  for  liow  would 

J  you  know 

What  she  t<^)ld  me  to  n.iy  if  T  di<]n't?     Don't 

you  really  and  truly  think  ho? 


"  And    then   you'd  fee]   strange  here  alon*. 

And  you  wouldn't  know  just  wiiere  to 
sit; 
For  that  chair  isn't  strong  on  its  logs,  and 

we  never  use  it  a  bit: 
We  keep  it  to  inatcli  with  tho  sofa;  but  Jack 

says  it  would  be  like  you 
To  flop   yoTirself  right   down    ujion    it,  and 

knock  out  tho  very  last  screw. 


HYMN  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 


255 


"  Suppose  you  try !     I  won't    tell.     You're 

afraid  to  !     Oh !  you're  afraid  they  would 

think  it  mean  ! 
Well,  then,  there's  the  album  :  that's  pretty  if 

you're  sure  that  your  fingers  are  clean. 
For  sister  says  sometimes    I  daub  it ;  but  she 

only  says  that  when  she's  cross. 
There's  her  picture.  You  know  it  ?  It's  like 

her ;  but  she  ain't  good-looking,  of  course. 

"This  is  ME."  It's  the  best  of  'em  all.      Now, 

tell  me,  you'd  never  have  thought 
That  once  I  was  little  as  that  ?     It's  the  only 

one  that  could  be  bought ; 
For  that  was  the    message  to  pa  from  the 

photograph-man  where  I  sat, — 
That  he  wouldn't  print  off  any  more  till  he 

first  got  his  money  for  that. 

"What?     Maybe   you're    tired  of  waiting. 

Why,  often  she's  longer  than  this. 
There's  all  her  back  hair  to  do  up,  and  all 

her  front  curls  to  friz. 


But  it's  nice  to  be  sitting  here  talking  like 
grown  people,  just  you  and  me  ! 

Do  you  think  you'll  be  coming  here  often  ? 
Oh,  do  !  But  don't  come  like  Tom  Lee, — 

"  Tom  Lee,  her  last  beau.  Why,  my  goodness! 

he  used  to  be  here  day  and  night, 
Till  the  folks  thought  he'd  be  her  husband ; 

and  .Tack  says  that  gave  him  a  fright. 
You  won't  run  away  then,  as  he  did?  foi 

you're  not  a  rich  man,  they  say. 
Pa  says  you're  as  poor  as  a  church-mouse. 

Now,  are  you  ?  and  how  poor  are  they  ? 

"  Ain't  you  glad  that  you  met  me  ?    Well,  I 

am  ;  for  I  know  now  your  hair  isn't  red ; 
But  what  there  is  left  of  it's  mousy,  and  not 

what  that  naughty  Jack  said. 
But  there  I  must  go :  sister's  coming !    But  I 

wish  I  could  wait,  just  to  see 
If  she  ran  up  to  you,  and  she  kissed  you  in 

the  way  that  she  used  to  kiss  Lee." 


HYMN  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 


HOEACE   SMITH. 


AY-STARS!   that  ope  your  eyes   at 
^mk  morn  to  twinkle 

From  rainbow   galaxies  of  earth's 
creation ; 

«|     And  dewdrops  on  her  lovely  altars 
sprinkle 

As  a  libation. 


Ye  matin  worshippers !  who  bending  lowly 

Before  the  uprisen  sun,  God's  lidless  eye, 
Pour  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high. 

Ye  bright  mosaics !  that  with  storied  beauty 

The  floor  of  nature's  temple  tosselate — 
What  numerous  lessons  of  iu.structive  duty 
Your  forms  create ! 


'Neath  cloister'd  bough  each  floral  bell  that 
swingeth. 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  those  domes  where  crumbling  arch 
and  column 
Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand. 
But  to  that  fane  most  catholic  and  solemn. 

Which  God  hath  plann'd ; 

To  that  cathedral  boundless  as  our  wonder, 
Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon 
supply  ; 
Its   choir,  the  wind   and   waves  ;  its  organ, 
thunder ; 

Its  dome,  the  sky. 


256 


DEATH  OF  LITTLE  NELL. 


rtere,  as  in  solitude  and  shade,  I  wander 
Through  the  lone  aisles,  or  stretched  upon 
the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God. 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers,  though  made  for 
pleasure. 
Blooming  o'er  hill  and   dale,  by  day  and 
night; 
On  every  side  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  delight ! 

Your  voiceless  lips,   0   flowers!   are  living 
preachers ; 
Each  cup  a  pulpit,  and  each  leaf  a  book ; 
■Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers, 
In  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  apostles,  that  with  dewy  splendor 
Blush  without  sin,   and   weep  without  a 
crime ! 
Oh !   may   I  deeply   learn,   and   ne'er  sur- 
render 

Your  lore  divine ! 


"  Thou  wert  not,  Solomon,  in  all  thy  glory 
Array'd,"  the  lilies  cry  "  in  robes  like  ours ; 
How  vain  your  glory — Oh  !  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers !" 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly  artist, 
With  which  thou  paintest  nature's  wide- 
spread hall, 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all ! 

Posthumous  glories — angel-like  collection, 
Upraised  from  seed  and  bulb  interr'd  in 
earth ; 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection 

And  second  birth ! 

Ephemeral  sages — what  instructors  hoary 
To  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish 
scope? 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  mori, 

Yet  fount  of  hope. 

Were  1, 0  God !  in  churchless  lands  remaining, 

Far  from  the  voice  of  teachers  and  divines, 

My  soul  would  find  in  flowers  of  thy  ordaining 

Priests,  sermons,  shrines! 


DEATH  OF  LITTLE  NELL. 


CHARLES   DICKENS. 


Y  little  and  little,  the  old  man  had  drawn  back  towards  the  inner 
"^      chamboi-,  while  these  words  were  spoken.     He  j)ointed  there,  as 
he  replied,  with  trembling  lips, — 

"  You  plot  among  you  to  wean  my  heart  from  her.  You 
will  never  do  that — never  while  I  have  life.  I  have  no  relative  or 
friend  but  her — I  never  had — I  never  will  have.  She  is  all  in  all  to 
It  is  too  late  to  part  us  now." 
Waving  them  off  with  his  hand,  and  calling  softly  to  her  as  he  went, 
he  stole  into  the  room.  They  who  were  left  behind  drew  close  together, 
and  after  a  few  whispered  words, — not  unbroken  by  emotion,  or  easily 
uttered, — followed  him.  They  moved  so  gently  that  their  footsteps  made 
no  noise,  but  there  were  sobs  from  among  the  group  and  sounds  of  grief 
and  mourning. 


me 


DEATH  OF  LITTLE  NELL.  257 


For  she  was  dead.  There,  upon  her  Httle  bed,  she  lay  at  rest.  The 
solemn  stillness  was  no  marvel  now. 

She  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful  and  calm,  so  free  from  trace  of 
pain,  so  fair  to  look  upon.  She  seemed  a  creature  fresh  from  the  hand  of 
God,  and  waiting  for  the  breath  of  life ;  not  one  who  had  lived  and  suffered 
death. 

Her  couch  was  dressed  with  here  and  there  some  winter  berries  and 
green  leaves,  gathered  in  a  spot  she  had  been  used  to  favor.  "  When  I 
die,  put  near  me  something  that  has  loved  the  light,  and  had  the  sky  above 
it  always."     Those  were  her  words. 

She  was  dead.  Dear,-  gentle,  patient,  noble  Nell  was  dead.  Her 
little  bird — a  poor  slight  thing  the  pressure  of  a  finger  would  have  crushed 
— was  stirring  nimbly  in  its  cage ;  and  the  strong  heart  of  its  child-mis- 
tress was  mute  and  motionless  forever. 

Where  were  the  traces  of  her  early  cares,  her  sufferings  and  fatigues  ? 
All  gone.  Sorrow  was  dead  indeed  in  her,  but  peace  and  perfect  happiness 
were  born;  imaged  in  her  tranquil  beauty  and  profound  repose. 

And  still  her  former  self  lay  there,  unaltered  in  this  change.  Yes. 
The  old  fireside  had  smiled  upon  that  same  sweet  face ;  it  had  passed  like 
a  dream  through  haunts  of  misery  and  care ;  at  the  door  of  the  poor 
schoolmaster  on  the  summer  evening,  before  the  furnace  fire  upon  the  cold, 
wet  night,  at  the  still  bedside  of  the  dying  boy,  there  had  been  the  same 
mild,  lovely  look.  So  shall  we  know  the  angels  in  their  majesty  after 
death. 

The  old  man  held  one  languid  arm  in  his,  and  had  the  small  hand 
tight  folded  to  his  breast  for  warmth.  It  was  the  hand  she  had  stretched 
out  to  him  with  her  last  smile — the  hand  that  had  led  him  on  through  all 
their  wanderings.  Ever  and  anon  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  then  hugged 
it  to  his  breast  again,  murmuring  that  it  was  warmer  now  ;  and  as  he  said 
it,  he  looked  in  agony  to  those  who  stood  around,  as  if  imploring  them  to 
help  her. 

She  was  dead,  and  past  all  help,  or  need  of  it.  The  ancient  rooms 
she  had  seemed  to  fill  with  life,  even  while  her  own  v/as  waning  fast, — the 
garden  she  had  tended, — the  eyes  she  had  gladdened — the  noiseless  haunts 
of  many  a  thoughtless  hour — the  paths  she  had  trodden  as  it  were  but 
yesterday — could  know  her  no  more. 

"It  is  not,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  as  he  bent  down  to  kiss  her  on  the 
cheek,  and  give  his  tears  free  vent,  "it  is  not  on  earth  that  heaven's  justice 
ends.  Think  what  it  is  compared  with  the  world  to  which  her  young 
spirit  has  winged  its  early  flight,  and  say,  if  one  deliberate  wish  expressed 


258 


THE  JOLLY  OLD  PEDAGOGUE. 


in  solemn  terms  above  this  bed  could  call  Her  back  to  life,  which  of  U8 

would  utter  it?" 


FATE. 


,  F.   BRET   HARTE 

§CT^HE  sky  is  clouded,  the  rocks  are  bare, 
^m^  Tlie  spray  of  the  tempest  is  white  in 

3.*i         The  winds  are  out  with  the  waves 
J  at  play— 

I  And  I  shall  not  tempt  the  sea  to-day. 


The  trail  is  narrow,  the  wood  is  dim, 


The  panther  clings  to  the  arching  limb: 
And  the  lion's  whelps  are  abroad  at  play— ' 
And  I  shall  not  join  the  chase  to-day. 


But  the  ship  sailed  safely  over  the  sea, 
And  the  hunters  came  from  the  chase  in  glee; 
And  the  town  that  was  built  upon  a  rock 
Was  swallowed  up  in  the  earthquake  shock. 


TEE  JOLLY  OLD  PEDAGOGUE. 


GEORGE  ARNOLD. 


'^!lCT^\VAS  a  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago, 
^M^  Tall  and  slender,  and  sallow  and 
^f^  dry; 

'j;it^   Hie  form  was  bent,  and  his  gait  was 
slow, 
His  long,  thin  hair  was  as  white  as 
snow, 
But  a  wonderful  twinkle  shone  in 
his  eye ; 
And  he  sang  every  night,  as  he  went  to  bed, 

*'  Let  us  be  happy,  down  here  below  ; 
The  living  should  live,  though  the  dead  be 
dead," 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  taught  his  scholars  the  rule  of  three. 

Writing,  and  reading,  and  history,  too ; 
He  took  the  little  ones  upon  his  knee, 
/or  a  kind  old  heart  in  his  breawt  had  ho. 

And  the  wants  of  the  littlest  child  he  knew : 
"  Learn  wliile  you're  young,"  ho  often  said; 

"  There  is  much  tof:njoy,down  hero  Ijelow; 
iife  for  tlie  living,  and  rest  for  the  dead !'" 

3aid  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

With  the  Htujtidest  boys  he  was  kind  and  cool, 

Speaking  only  in  gi!nlle.st  tones; 
The  rod  was  hardly  known  in  his  school— 
Whi[>ping  to  him  was  a  barbarous  rule, 


And  too  hard  work  for  his  poor  old  bones ; 
Beside,  it  was  painful,  he  sometimes  said : 

"  We  should  make  life  pleasant,  down  here 
below, 
The  living  need  charity  more  than  the  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  lived  in  the  house  by  the  hawthorn  lane, 

With  roses  and  woodbine  over  the  door ; 
His  rooms  were  quiet,  and  neat,  and  plain, 
But  a  spirit  of  comfort  there  held  reign, 

And  made  him  forget  he  was  old  and  poor; 
"  I  need  so  little,"  he  often  said  ; 

"  And  my  friends  and  relatives  here  below 
Won't  litigate  over  me  when  I  am  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

But  the  pleasantest  times  that  he  had,  of  all, 

Were  the  sociable  hours  ho  used  to  pa.ss, 
With  his  chair  tipjicd  back  to  a  neighbor's  wall 
Making  an  unceremonious  call, 

Over  a  ])ipo  and  a  friendly  gla-ss . 
This  was  the  finest  ploafluro,  he  said, 

Of  the  many  ho  tfisted  hero  below, 
"  Who  has  no  cronies,  had  better  be  dead  T 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

ThiMi  tho  jolly  old  podagoguo's  wrinkled  iaot 
Melted  all  over  in  aunshiuy  "milcB; 


THE  JOLLY  OLD  PEDAGOGUE. 


250 


He  stirred  his  glass  with  an  old-school  grace, 
Chuckled,  and  sipped,  and  prattled  apace. 

Till  the  house  grew  merry  from  cellar  to  tiles. 
"  I'm  a  pretty  old  man,"  he  gently  said, 

"  I  ha  /e  lingered  a  long  while,  here  below ; 


Leaving  his  tenderest  kisses  there, 

On   the  jolly   old   pedagogue's  jolly  old 
crown ; 

And,  feeling  the  kisses,  he  smiled,  and  said, 
'Twas  a  glorious  world,  down  here  below ^ 


"  He  took  the  little  ones  upon  his  knee.' 


But  my  heart  is  fresh,  if  my  youth  is  fled  !' 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  --" 


ago. 


He  3moked  his  pipe  in  the  balmy  air, 

Every  night  when  the  sun  went  down, 
Wtiite  the  soft,  wind  played  in  his  silvery 
iiftir, 


"  Why  wait  for  happiness  till  we  are  deua  • 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  sat  at  his  door,  one  midsummer  night, 

After  the  sun  had  sunk  in  the  west. 
And  the  lingering  beams  of  golden  light 
Made  his  kindly  old  face  look  warm  and  bright 


260 


THE  COMET. 


While  the  odorous  night-wind  whispered, 
"Rest!" 
Gently,  gently,  he  bowed  his  head — 


There  were  angels  waiting  for  him,  I  know ; 
He  was  sure  of  happiness,  livi»g  or  dead, 
This  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  a^o. 


THE  COMET. 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


^P^MONG  professors  of  astronomy, 
Sj«a^    Adepts  in  the  celestial  economy, 
c^— ^        The  name  of  Herschel's  very  often 
f^  cited ; 

^  And  justly  so,  for  he  is  hand  in  glove 

J  With  every  bright  intelligence  above, 

Indeed,  it  was  his  custom  so  to  stop, 
Watching  the  stars,  upon  the  house's  top ; 
That  once  upon  a  time  he  got  benighted. 

In  his  observatory  thus  coquetting. 

With  Venus  or  with  Juno  gone  astray, 
All  sublunary  matters  quite  forgetting 
In  his  flirtations  with  the  winking  stars, 
Acting  the  spy,  it  might  be,  upon  Mars, — 

A  new  Andre ; 
Or,  like  a  Tom  of  Coventry,  sly  peeping 
At  Dian  sleeping ;  ,., 

Or  ogling  through  his  glais 
Bome  heavenly  lass, 

Tripping  with  pails  along  the  Milky  way  ; 
Or  looking  at  that  wain  of  Charles,  the 
Martyr's. 
Thus  was  he  sitting,  watchman  of  the  sky, 
When  lo!  a  something  with  a  tail  of  flame 
Made  him  exclairn, 

"  My  stars  !" — he  always  puts  that  stress 
on  my, — 
"  My  stars  and  garters  !" 

"  A  comet,  Huro  as  I'm  alive ! 

A  noble  one  a.s  I  should  wish  to  view  ; 

It  can't  bf  Ilalley's  though,  that  is  not  due 
Till  fighteen  thirty-five. 
Magnificent      How  fine  his  fiery  trail ! 

Zounds !    'tis  a   pity,   though,     he    comes 
unsought, 

Unasked,      unrockoncd, — in     no     human 
thought ; 

IIo  ought — ho  ought — ho  ought 

To  have  been  caught 
With  scientific  salt  upon  hi.^^  tail. 


"  I  looked  no  more  for  it,  I  do  declare. 
Than  the  Great  Bear ! 

As  sure  as  Tycho  Brahe  is  dead, 

It  really  entered  in  mj^  head 
No  more  than  Berenice's  hair !" 
Thus  musing,  heaven's  grand  inquisitor 
Sat  gazing  on  the  uninvited  visitor. 
Till  John,  the  serving  man,  came  to  the  uppe? 
Regions,  with  "  Please  your  honor,  come  to 
supper." 

"  Supper  !  good  John,  to-night  I  shall  not  sup, 

Except  on  that  phenomenon — look  up." 

"  Not  sup !"'  cried  John,  thinking  with  con« 
sternation 

That  supjting  on  a  star  must  be  stor-vation, 

Or  even  to  batten 

On  igncsfatui  would  never  fatten. 

His  visage  scemea  to  say,  "  that  very  odd  is," 
But  still  his  master  the  same  tune  ran  on, 
"  I  can't  come  down  ;  go  to  the  parlor  John, 

And  say  I'm  supping  with  the  heavenly 
bodies." 

"  The  heavenly  bodies !"  echoed  John,  "ahem!" 

His  mind  still  full  of  famishing  alarms, 
"  Zounds  !  if  your  honor  sups  with  them, 
In   helping,   somebody   must    make   long 
arms." 
Ho  thought   hi.''    mastor's    stomach   was   in 
ilaiii;cr, 
But   .'^lill    iu    the   same     lone   replied   tht 

kiiiglil, 
"Go  down,  John,  go,  I  have  no  appetite; 
Say  I'm  engaged  with  a  celestial  stranger.* 
Quoth  John,  not  much  aufait  in  such  affairs, 
"Wouldn't  tho   stranger    take   a   bit   down 
stairs  ?" 

"No,"   said    the    master,    smiling    and    n« 

wonder, 
At  such  a  blunder, 


TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 


261 


"  The  stranger  is  not   quite  the   thing   you 

"  A  what  ?     A  rocket,  John !     Far  from  it ' 

think  ; 

What  you  behold,  John,  is  a  comet; 

He  wants  no  meat  or  drink  ; 

One  of  those  most  eccentric  things 

And  one  may  doubt  quite  reasonably  whether 

That  in  all  ages 

He  has  a  mouth, 

Have  puzzled  Sages 

Seeing  his  head  and  tail  are  joined  together. 

And  frightened  kings ; 

Behold  him !  there  he  is,  John,  in  the  south." 

With  fear  of   change,  that  flaming  meieor 

John  looked  up  with  his  portentous  eyes, 

John, 

Each  rolling  like  a  marble  in  its  socket; 

Perplexes  sovereigns  throughout  its  rai.gt 

At  last  the  fiery  tadpole  spies, 

"  Do  he  ?"  cried  John  ; 

And,  full  of  Vauxhall  reminiscence,  cries, 

"  Well,  let  him  flare  on. 

"  A  rare  good  rocket  1" 

/haven't  got  no  sovereigns  to  change  !" 

TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 


^^'VE  wandered  to  the  village,  Tom,  I've 
^|P  sat  beneath  the  tree, 

'W'  Upon  the  school-house  play-ground,  that 
•  sheltered  you  and  me ; 

,f.  But  none  were  left  to  greet  me,  Tom ;  and 

few  were  left  to  know, 
Who  played  with  us  upon  the  green,  some 
twenty  years  ago. 

The  grass  is  just  as  green,  Tom  ;  bare-footed 

boys  at  play 
Were  sporting,   just  as  we   did   then,  with 

spirits  just  as  gay. 
But  the  "  master"  sleeps  upon  the  hill,  which, 

coated  o'er  with  snow. 
Afforded  us   a  sliding-place,   some    twenty 

years  ago. 

The  old  school-house  is  altered  now ;  the 
benches  are  replaced 

By  new  ones,  very  like  the  same  our  pen- 
knives once  defaced ; 

But  the  same  old  bricks  are  in  the  wall,  the 
bell  swings  to  an(^  fro ; 

It*  music's  just  the  same,  dear  Tom,  'twas 
twenty  years  ago. 

The  boys  were  playing    some  old  game, 
beneath  that  same  old  tree ; 

I  have  forgot  the  name  just  now, — you  ve 
played  the  same  with  me. 

On  that  same  spot ;  'twas  played  with  knives, 
by  throwing  so  and  so  ; 
^8 


The  loser  had  a  task  to  do, — there,  twenty 
years  ago. 

The  river's  running  just  as  still ;  the  willow- 

on  its  side 
Are  larger  than  they  were,  Tom  ;  the  'stream 

appears  less  wide; 
But   the   grape-vine   swing   is   ruined   now, 

where  once  we  played  the  beau, 
And  swung  our  sweethearts, — pretty  girls,— 

just  twenty  years  ago. 

The  spring  that  bubbled  'neath  the  hill,  close 

by  the  spreading  beech, 
Is  very  low, — 'twas  then   so  high    that  we 

could  scarcely  reach. 
And,  kneeling  down  to  get  a  drink,  dear  Tom, 

I  started  so. 
To  see  how  sadly  I  am  changed  since  twenty 

years  ago. 

'Twasby  that  spring,  upon  an  elm,  youkno\? 

I  cut  your  name, 
Your  sweetheart's  just  beneath  it,  Tom,  and 

you  did  mine  the  same ; 
Some  heartless  wretch  has  peeled  the  bark, 

'twas  dying  sure  but  slow. 
Just  as  she  died,  whose  name  you  cut;  somu 

twenty  years  ago. 

My  lids  have  long  been  diy,  Tom,  but  tears 
came  to  my  eyes  ; 


262 


THE  SEA. 


I  thought  of  her  I  loved  so  well,  those  early- 
broken  ties ; 

1'  visited  the  old  church-yard,  and  took  some 
flowers  to  strow 

Upon  the  graves  of  those  we  loved,  some 
twenty  years  ago. 


Some  are  in  the  church-yard  laid,  some  sleep 

beneath  the  sea ; 
But  few  are  left  of  our  old  class,  excepting 

you  and  me ; 
And  when  our  time  shall  come,    Tom,   and 

we  are  called  to  go, 
I  hope  they'll  lay  us  where  we  played,  jusj 

twenty  years  ago, 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 


ROBERT   BURNS. 


E  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your 
flowers. 
Your  waters  never  drumlie ! 
There  simmer  first  unfaulds  her  robes. 
And  there  the  langest  tarry ; 
there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 
'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk. 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom. 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  cla.sped  her  to  my  bosom ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie  ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 


Wi'  mony  a  vow  and  locked  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender ; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder  ; 
But,  0,  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

0  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly  ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ; 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  mo  dearly  ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


THE  SEA. 


FROM    BYRON  S    "ClIILDE    HAROLD. 


iTpKlIFRE  is  a  pleasiiro  in  llw  pathli-sa 
5-JAL^  woods, 

•).*  ■  *i     There  is  a  rapture    on  the;  lonoly 
%^  shore, 

There  is  society  wli'^ro  none  intrudes 

By  the  deej)  sea,  and  music  in  itfl  roar: 

I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more. 

From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 


From  all  1  may  be,  or  liiive  hcni  before. 
To  mingle  witli  the  universe,  ami  fed 
What  I   can  ne'er   express,  yet   cannot   ali 
conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean, — roll : 

Ten  thousand  flKetssweejiover  time  in  vain  ; 

Man  marks  the  earth  with  niiu,  — hm  control 


THE  SEA. 


263 


^tops  with  the  shore ; — upon   the  watery 

plaia 
The  wrecks   are  all   thy  deed,  nor  doth 

remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
lie  sinks  into  thy  depths  with   bubbling 

groan, 
Vithout  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and 

unknown. 

His  steps   are  not   upon  thy  paths, — thy 

fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him, — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength 

he  wields 
Vor  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 


They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which 
rnar 
Alike   the    Armada's    pride    or    spoils    ol 
Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores    are   empires,  changed   in  all 

save  thee  ; 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are 

they? 
Thy  waters  washed  them  power  while  they 

were  free, 
And  many  a   tyrant  since;   their   shores 

obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage  ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  ;  not  so  thou; 
Unchangeable  save   to   thy    wild   waves' 

play, 


Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies. 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful 

spray 
And  howling,  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth : — there 

let  him  lay. 

The   armaments  which    thunderstrike  the 

walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals. 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee  and  arbiter  of  war, — 
Those  are    thy  toys,    and,  as   the   snowy 

flake, 


Time  writes  no  wrinkles  on  thine   azurs 
brow; 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  roUest 
now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's 

form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  :  in  all  time 
Calm  or  convulsed, — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or 

-storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving ;    boundless,     endless,    and 

sublime. 
The  image  of  Eternity, — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  !  even  from  out  tfiy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  niade  ;   each 

zone 


264 


IMAGES. 


Obeys  thee :  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathom- 
less, alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee.  Ocean  !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Some,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward ;  from  a 
boy 


I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers, — they  to  m( 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror,  'twas  a  pleasing  fear  ; 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near. 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane, — as  I  do 
here. 


IMAGES. 


T.    B.    MACAULAY. 


lOGICIANS  may  reason  about  abstractions.  But  the  great  mass  oi 
men  must  have  images.  The  strong  tendency  of  the  multitude  in 
all  ages  and  nations  to  idolatry  can  be  explained  on  no  other  prin- 
ciple. The  first  inhabitants  of  Greece,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  wor- 
shipped one  invisible  Deity.  But"  the  necessity  of  having  something 
more  definite  to  adore  produced,  in  a  few  centuries,  the  innumerable  crowd 
of  gods  and  goddesses.  In  like  manner,  the  ancient  Persians  thought  it 
impious  to  exhibit  the  Creator  under  a  human  form.  Yet  even  these  trans- 
ferred to  the  sun  the  worship  which,  in  speculation,  they  considered  due 
only  to  the  Supreme  Mind.  The  history  of  the  Jews  is  the  record  of  a 
continued  struggle  between  pure  Theism,  supported  by  the  most  terrible 
sanctions,  and  the  strangely  fascinating  desire  of  having  some  visible  and 
tangible  object  of  adoration.  Perhaps  none  of  the  secondary  causes  which 
Gibbon  has  assigned  for  the  rapidity  with  which  Christianity  spread  over 
the  world,  while  Judaism  scarcely  ever  acquired  a  proselyte,  operated  more 
powerfully  than  this  feeling.  God,  the  uncreated,  the  incomprehensible, 
the  invisible,  attracted  few  worshippers.  A  philosopher  might  admire  so 
noble  a  conception;  but  the  crowd  turned  away  in  disgust  from  words 
which  presented  no  image  to  their  minds.  It  was  before  Deity,  embodied 
in  a  human  form,  walking  among  men,  partaking  of  their  infirmities, 
leaning  on  their  bosoms,  weeping  over  their  graves,  slumbering  in  the 
mang<'r,  bleeding  on  the  cross,  that  the  prejudices  of  the  Synagogue,  and 
the  doubts  of  tlie  Academy,  and  the  pride  of  the  Portico,  and  the  fasces  oi 
tije  Lictor,  and  the  swords  of  thirty  legions,  were  humbled  in  the  dust. 
Soon  after  Christianity  ha<l  achieved  its  triumph,  the  principle  which  had 
a-ssisted  it  began  to  corrupt  it.  It  became  a  new  Paganism.  Patron  saints 
assumed  the  offices  of  household  gods.  St.  George  took  the  plac<i  of  Mars. 
St.  p]lmo  consoled  the  mariner  for  tlie  loss  of  Castor  and  Pollux.     Tli'^ 


GOIN'  HOME  TO-DAY. 


265 


Virgin  Mother  and  Cecilia  succeeded  to  Venus  and  the  muses.  The  fasci- 
nation of  sex  and  loveliness  was  again  joined  to  that  of  celestial  dignity  ; 
and  the  homage  of  chivalry  was  blended  with  that  of  religion.  Reformers 
have  often  made  a  stand  against  these  feelings ;  but  never  with  more  than 
apparent  and  partial  success.  The  men  who  demolished  the  images  in 
cathedrals  have  not  always  been  able  to  demolish  those  which  were 
enshrined  in  their  minds.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  show  that  in  politics 
the  same  rule  holds 'good.  Doctrines,  we  are  afraid,  mr.-;t  generally  be 
embodied  before  they  can  exercise  a  strong  public  feeling.  The  multitude 
is  more  easily  interested  for  the  most  unmeaning  badge,  or  the  most 
msignilicant  name  than  for  the  most  important  principle. 


GOIW  HOME  TO-DAY. 


WILL   CARLETON. 


■^Y  business  on  the  jury's  done — the 
quibblin'  all  is  through — 
t^vi^liS?  I've  watched  the  lawyers,  right  and 
i^^^  left,  and  give  my  verdict  true; 

T        I  stuck  so  long  unto  my  chair,  I 
I  thought  I  would  grow  in ; 

T    And  if  I  do  not  know  myself,  they'll 
get  me  there  ag'in. 
But  now  the  court's  adjourned  for  good,  and 

I  have  got  my  pay  ; 
I'm  loose  at  last,  and  thank  the  Lord,  I'm 
goin'  home  to-day. 

I've  somehow  felt  uneasy,  like,  since  first  day 
I  come  down  ; 

It  is  an  awkward  game  to  play  the  gentle- 
man in  town  ; 

And  this  'ere  Sunday  suit  of  mine,  on  Sunday 
rightly  sets. 

But  when  I  wear  the  stuff  a  week,  it  some- 
how galls  and  frets. 

I'd  rather  wear  my  homespun  rig  of  pepper- 
salt  and  gray — 

I'll  have  it  on  in  half  a  jiff",  v/hen  I  get  home 
to-day. 

1  have  no  doubt  my  wife  looked  out,  as  well 
as  any  ons — - 


As  well    as  any  woman   could — to  see  that 

things  were  done : 
For  though  Melinda,  when  I'm  there,  won't 

set  her  foot  out  doors. 
She's  very  careful,  when  I'm  gone,  to  'tend 

to  all  the  chores. 
But  nothing  prospers  half  so  well  when  I  go 

off  to  stay, 
And  I  will  put  things  into  shape,  when  I  get 

home  to-day. 

The  mornin'  that  I  come  away,  we  had  a  little 

bout; 
I  coolly  took  my  hat  and  left,  before  the  show 

was  out. 
For  what  I  said  was  naught  whereat  she 

ought  to  take  ofi"ense  ; 
And  she  was  always   quick  at  words,  and 

ready  to  commence. 
But  then,  she's  first  one  to  give  up  when  she 

has  had  her  say  ; 
And  she  will  meet  me  with  a  kiss,  when  I  g« 

home  to-day 

My  little  boy — I'll  give  'em  leave  to  match 

him,  if  they  can  ; 
It's  fun  to  see  him  strut  about,  and  try  to  be 

a  man ! 


266 


THE  NATION'S  DEAD. 


The  gamest,  cheeriest  little  chap  you'd  ever 

want  to  see ! 
And  then  they  laugh  because  I  think  the 

child  resembles  me. 
The  little  rogue !  he  goes  for  me  like  robbers 

for  their  prey ; 
He'll  turn  my  pockets  inside  out,  when  I  get 

home  to-day. 

My  little  girl — I  can't  contrive  how  it  should 

happen  thus — 
That  God  could  pick  that  sweet  bouquet,  and 

fling  it  down  to  us ! 
My  wife,  she  says  that  han'some  face  will 

some  day  make  a  stir ; 
And  then  I  laugh,  because  she  thinks  the 

child  resembles  her. 


She'll  meet  me  half-way  down  the  hill,  and 

kiss  me,  anj^way  ; 
And  light  my  heart  up  with  her  smiles,  when 

I  go  home  to-day  ! 

If  there's  a  heaven  upon  the  earth,  a  fellor. 

knows  it  when 
He's  been  away  from  home  a  week,  and  then 

gets  back  again. 
If  there's  a  heaven  above  the  earth,  there 

often,  I'll  be  bound, 
Some  homesick  fellow  meets  his  folks,  and 

hugs  'em  all  around. 
But  let  my  creed  be  right  or  wrong,  or  be  it 

as  it  may. 
My  heaven  is  just  ahead  of  me — I'm  goin' 

home  to-day. 


MY  CREED. 


ALICE   GARY. 


hold  that  Christian  grace  abounds 
Where  chajity  is  seen ;  that  when 

We  climb  to  heaven,  'tis  on  the  rounds 
Of  love  to  men. 

J.     I  hold  all  else,  named  piety, 
T         A  selfish  scheme,  a  vain  pretence ; 
Where  centre  is  not,  can  there  be 
Circurnfercnco  ? 

This  I  moreover  hold,  and  dare 

Affirm  where'er  my  rhyme  may  go, — 

Whatever  things  be  sweet  or  fair, 
Love  makes  them  so. 

Whether  it  be  the  lullabies 

That  charm  to  rest  the  nursing  bird. 


Or  that  sweet  confidence  of  sighs 
And  blushes,  made  without  a  word. 

Whether  the  dazzling  and  the  flush 
Of  softly  sumptuous  garden  bowers. 

Or  by  some  cabin  door,  a  bush 
Of  ragged  flowers. 

'Tis  not  the  wide  phylactery. 

Nor  stubborn  fasts,  nor  stated  prayers, 
That  makes  us  saints  ;  we  judge  the  tree 

By  what  it  bears. 

And  when  a  man  can  live  apart 
From  works,  on  theologic  trust, 

I  know  the  blood  about  his  heart 
Is  dry  as  dust. 


r«(|>r>  ■ 


THE  NATION'S  DEAD. 


'jt 


»UR  hiindrod  thousand  inf:n 
Th*!  brave — the  good — the  true. 
In  tangled  wood,  in  mountain  glen, 
On  battle  plain,  in  prison  pen. 
Lie  dead  for  mo  and  you  1 


Four  hundred  thousand  of  the  brave 
Have  made   our  ranHoiiU'd  soil  thoxr 
grave. 

For  mo  and  you ! 
Good  friend,  for  mo  and  you  I 


UNDER  THE  VIOLETS. 


f^67 


In  many  a  fevered  swamp, 

By  many  a  black  bayou, 
In  many  a  cold  and  frozen  camp, 
The  weary  sentinel  ceased  his  tramp. 

And  died  for  me  and  you ! 
From  Western  plain  to  ocean  tide 
Ar«  stretched  the  graves  of  those  who  died 
For  me  and  you ! 

QocKi  friend,  for  me  and  you  ! 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 

Their  ready  swords  they  drew, 
And  poured  their  life-blood,  like  the  rain 
A  home — a  heritage  to  gain, 

To  gain  for  me  and  you ! 
Our  brothers  mustered  by  our  side ; 
Tliey  marched,  they  fought,  and  bravely  died 
For  me  and  you ! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 

Up  many  a  fortress  wall 

They  charged — those  boys  in  blue — 
'Mid  surging  smoke,  the  volley'd  ball ; 
The  bravest  were  the  first  to  fall  1 

To  fall  for  me  and  you ! 


These  noble  men — the  nation's  pride — 
Four  hundre'l  thousand  men  have  died. 
For  me  and  you ! 
Good  friend,  for  me  and  you  i 

In  treason's  prison-hold 

Their  martyr  spirits  grew 
To  stature  like  the  saints  of  old. 
While  amid  agonies  untold, 

They  starved  for  me  and  you  ! 
The  good,  the  patient,  and  the  tried, 
Four  hundred  thousand  men  have  die^ 
For  me  and  you ! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you  I 

A  debt  we  ne'er  can  pay 

To  them  is  justly  due. 
And  to  the  nation's  latest  day 
Our  children's  children  still  shall  say, 

"  They  died  for  me  and  you  !  " 
Four  hundred  thousand  of  the  brave 
Made  this,  our  ransomed  soil,  their  gr»7a, 
For  me  and  you ! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you  I 


UNDER  THE  VIOLETS. 


OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES. 


|ER  hands  are  cold  ;  her  face  is  white ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go ; 
^P^^  Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light ; — 
•[  Fold  the  white   vesture,   snow   on 

tf  snow, 

J  And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 
Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows  round 

To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 

That  drinks  the  greenness  from  the  ground, 
And  drop  their  dead  leaves  on  her  mound. 


When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run. 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins  call. 

And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun, 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall. 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  alL 

For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  spring; 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 
Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows  pasb 

Her  little  mourners  clad  in  black, 

The  cricket«,  sliding  through  the  grass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  maas. 


268 


BEYOND  THE  SMILING  AND  THE  WEEPING. 


At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies, 

And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise ! 


If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood, 

Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  below? 

Say  oulj'  this :  A  tender  bud. 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow 


THE  AMERICAN  BOY. 


.r4:|>-^ 


CAROLINE   OILMAN. 


bOK  up,  my  young  American ! 
Stand  firmly  on  the  earth, 
Where  noble  deeds  and  mental  power 
Give  titles  over  birth. 


A  hallow'd  land  thou  claim'st  my  boy, 

By  early  struggles  bought. 
Heaped  up  with  noble  memories, 

And  wide,  ay,  wide  as  thought! 

What  though  we  boast  no  ancient  towers 
Where  "  ivied  "  streamers  twine, 

The  laurel  lives  upon  our  soil, 
The  laurel,  boy,  is  thine. 

And  though  on  "  Cressy's  distant  field," 

Thy  gaze  may  not  be  cast, 
While  through  long  centuries  of  blood 

Rise  spectres  of  the  past, — 

The  future  wakes  thy  dreamings  high. 
And  thou  a  note  mayst  claim — 

AsjiiringH  which  in  after  times 
Shall  swell  the  trump  of  fame. 

And  when  thou'rt  told  of  knighthood's  shield, 
And  Engli.-h  battle.s  won. 


Look  up,  ray  boy,  and  breathe  one  word- 
The  name  of  Washington. 


BEYOND  THE  SMILING  AND  Tllh:  WEEPING. 


_c^^ 


HORATIUS    HONAU. 


'' VON  I)  Uie  smiling  and   tlie  wecjung 
I  nhall  bo  Hofjn  ; 
I'.ijyondtho  waking  and  tfio  sleeping, 
Ueyond  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, 


I  shall  bo  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  I 
Swccl  kmne  I 
Lord,  lorry  not,  but  come 


CALL  ME  NOT  DEAD. 


269 


Beyond  the  blooming  and  the  fading 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  shining  and  the  shading, 
Beyond  the  hoping  and  the  dreading, 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 

Beyond  the  rising  and  the  setting 

I  shall  be  soon 

Beyond  the  calming  and  the  fretting. 

Beyond  remembering  and  forgetting, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Love^  rest,  and  home  ! 


Beyond  the  gathering  and  the  strowing 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing, 


Beyond  the  coming  and  the  going, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home ! 

Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 
Beyond  the  pulse's  fever  beating, 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  I 

Beyond  the  frost  chain  and  the  fever 

I  shall  be  soon ; 
Beyond  the  rock  waste  and  the  river 
Beyond  the  ever  and  the  never, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  home  ! 
Lord,  tarty  not,  but  come. 


CALL  ME  NOT  BEAD. 


Translated  from  the  Persian  of  the  12th  Century  by  Edwin  Arnold. 


E  who  dies  at  Azim  sends 
This  to  comfort  all  his  friends. — 
Faithful  friend,  it  lies,  I  know. 
Pale  and  white,  and  cold  as  snow  ; 
And  ye  say,  "  Abdallah's  dead  " — 
Weeping  at  the  feet  and  head. 
I  can  see  your  falling  tears ; 

I  can  see  your  sighs  and  prayers; 

Yet  I  smile  and  whisper  this : 

I  am  not  the  thing  you  kiss ! 

Cease  your  tears  and  let  it  lie ; 

It  was  mine,  it  is  not  I. 

Sweet  friends,  what  the  women  lave 

For  the  last  sleep  of  the  grave 

Is  a  hut  which  I  am  quitting, 

Is  a  garment  no  more  fitting ; 

Is  a  cage  from  which,  at  last 

Like  a  bird  my  soul  has  passed. 

Love  the  inmate,  not  the  room  ; 

The  wearer,  not  the  garb — the  plume 

Of  the  eagle,  not  the  bars 

That  kept  him  from  the  splendid  stars 


Loving  friends,  0  rise  and  dry 
Straightway  every  weeping  eye  ^ 
What  ye  lift  upon  the  bier 
Is  not  worth  a  single  tear. 
'Tis  an  empty  sea-shell — one 
Out  of  which  the  pearl  is  gone. 
The  shell  is  broken,  it  lie?  there ; 
The  pearl,  the  all,  the  soul  is  here 
'Tis  an  earthen  jar  whose  lid 
Allah  sealed,  the  while  it  hid 
The  treasure  of  his  treasury — 
A  mind  that  loved  him,  let  it  he, 
Let  the  shards  be  earth  once  mor^ 
Since  the  gold  is  in  his  store. 

Allah,  glorious!     Allah,  good! 
Now  thy  world  is  understood — 
Now  the  long,  long  wondiT  end."'; 
Yet  ye  weep,  my  erring  friends, 
While  the  man  whom  you  call  dead 
In  unbrokea  bliss  instead 
Lives  and  loves  you — lost,  'tis  trua, 
In  the  light  that  shines  for  you: 


270 


WHAT  IS  A  MINORITY? 


But  in  the  light  you  cannot  see, 
In  undisturbed  felicity — 
In  a  perfect  paradise, 
And  a  life  that  never  dies. 

Farewell,  friends,  yet  not  farewell, 
Where  I  go,  you  too  shall  dwell, 
I  am  gone  before  your  face — 
A  moment's  worth,  a  little  space. 
When  you  come  where  I  have  stept, 
Ye  will  wonder  why  ye  wept ; 
Ye  will  know,  by  true  love  taught, 
That  here  is  all  and  there  is  naught. 
Weep  awhile,  if  ye  are  fain — 


Sunshine  still  must  follow  rain  ; 
Only  not  at  death, — for  death, 
Now  I  know,  is  that  first  breath 
Which  our  souls  draw  when  we  enter 
Life,  which  is,  of  all  life,  centre. 

Be  ye  certain  all  seems  love, 

Viewed  from  Allah's  throne  above  j 

Be  ye  stout  of  heart,  and  come 

Bravely  onward  to  your  home  ! 

La  Allah  ilia  Allah.     Yea  ! 

Thou  love  divine  !  Thou  love  alwayl 

He  that  died  at  Azim  gave 

This  to  those  who  made  his  grave. 


WHA  TIS  A  MINORITY? 


JOHN    B.    GOUGH. 


-  HAT  is  a  minority  ?  The  chosen  heroes  of  this  earth  have  been 
in  a  minority.  There  is  not  a  social,  poHtical,  or  rchgious  privi- 
lege that  you  enjoy  to-day  that  was  not  bought  for  you  by  the 
blood  and  tears  and  patient  suffering  of  the  minority.  It  is  the 
minority  that  have  vindicated  humanity  in  every  struggle.  It  is 
a  minority  that  have  stood  in  the  van  of  every  moral  conflict,  and  achieved 
all  that  is  noble  in  the  history  of  the  world.  You  will  find  that  each 
generation  has  been  always  busy  in  gathering  up  the  scattered  ashes  of 
the  martyr-'^d  lieroes  of  the  past,  to  deposit  them  in  the  golden  urn  of  a 
nation's  history.  Look  at  Scotland,  where  they  are  erecting  monuments — 
to  whom  ? — to  the  Covenanters.  Ah,  they  were  in  a  minority.  Read 
their  history,  if  you  can,  without  the  blood  tingling  to  the  tips  of  your 
fingers.  These  were  in  tlic  minority,  that,  through  blood,  and  tears,  and 
bootings  and  scourgings — <lying  the  waters  with  their  blood,  and  staining 
the  heather  with  tlieir  gore — fought  the  glorious  battle  of  religious  I'ree- 
dom.  Minority  !  if  a  man  stand  up  for  the  right,  though  the  right  bo  on 
the  scaffold,  while  the  wrong  sits  in  the  seat  of  government;  if  ho  stand 
for  the  right,  though  he  eat,  with  the  right  and  Irulh,  a  wretched  crust;  if 
he  walk  with  obloquy  an<l  scorn  in  tlw;  by-l;in(;s  and  streets,  while  the 
falsoliood  and  wrong  ruffle  it  in  silken  attire,  let  him  remember  that 
wherever  the  right  and  truth  ai-<!  tlK-iv  ai-e  always 


"  Troops  of  beautiful,  t;ill  aiigelH  " 


THE  LAST  STATION.  271 


gathered  round  him,  and  God  Himself  stands  within  the  dim  future,  and 
keeps  watch  over  His  own  !  If  a  man  stands  for  the  right  and  the  truth, 
tliough  every  man's  finger  be  pointed  at  him,  though  every  woman's  lip  be 
curled  at  him  in  scorn,  he  stands  in  a  majority ;  for  God  and  good  angels 
are  with  him,  and  greater  are  they  that  are  for  him,  than  all  they  that  b« 
against  him. 


TEE  LAST  STATION. 


;E  had  been  sick  at  one  of  the  hotels  for  three  or  four  weeks,  and  the 
— -,—  boys  on  the  road  dropped  in  daily  to  see  how  he  got  along,  and  to 
'^'^^  learn  if  they  could  render  him  any  kindness.  The  brakeman  was 
+  a  good  fellow,  and  one  and  all  encouraged  him  in  the  hope  that  he 
J  would  pull  through.  The  doctor  didn't  regard  the  case  as  danger- 
ous ;  but  the  other  day  the  patient  began  sinking,  and  it  was  seen  that  he 
could  not  live  the  night  out.  A  dozen  of  his  friends  sat  in  the  room  when 
night  came,  but  his  mind  wandered,  and  he  did  not  recognize  them. 

It  was  near  one  of  the  depots,  and  after  the  great  trucks  and  noisy 
drays  had  ceased  rolling  by,  the  bells  and  the  short,  sharp  whistles  of  the 
yard-engines  sounded  painfully  loud.  The  patient  had  been  very  quiet  for 
half  an  hour,  when  he  suddenly  unclosed  his  eyes,  and  shouted : — 

"Kal-a-ma-zoo!" 

One  of  the  men  brushed  the  hair  back  from  the  cold  forehead,  and  the 
brakeman  closed  his  eyes,  and  was  quiet  for  a  time.  Then  the  wind 
whirled  around  the  depot  and  banged  the  blinds  on  the  window  of  his  room, 
and  he  lifted  his  hand,  and  cried  out: — 

"  Jack-son !  Passengers  going  north  by  the  Saginaw  Road  change 
cars !" 

The  men  understood.  The  brakeman  thought  he  was  coming  east  on 
the  Michigan  Central.  The  effort  seemed  to  have  greatly  exhausted  him, 
for  he  lay  like  one  dead  for  the  next  five  minutes,  and  a  watcher  felt  for 
his  pulse  to  see  if  life  had  not  gone  out.  A  tug  going  down  the  river 
sounded  her  whistle  loud  and  long,  and  the  dying  brakeman  opened  his 
eyes,  and  called  out : — 

"Ann  Arbor!" 

He  had  been  over  the  road  a  thousand  times,  but  had  made  his  last 
trip.  Death  was  drawing  a  spectral  train  over  the  old  track,  and  he  was 
brakeman,  engineer,  and  conductor. 

One  of  the  yard  engines  uttered  a  shrill  whistle  of  wai'ning,  as  if  the 


272 


THE  BURIED  FLOWER. 


glare  of  the  headlight  had  shown  to  the  engineer  some  stranger  in  peril, 
and  the  brakeman  called  out :  — 

"  Yp-silanti !     Change  cars  here  for  the  Eel  Eiver  Koad !" 

"  He  is  coming  in  fast,"  whispered  one  of  the  men. 

"  And  the  end  of  his  '  run  '  will  be  the  end  of  his  life,"  said  a  second. 

The  dampness  of  death  began  to  collect  on  the  patient's  forehead,  and 
there  was  that  ghastly  look  on  the  face  that  death  always  brings.  The 
slamming  of  a  door  down  the  hall  startled  him  again,  and  he  moved  his 
head,  and  faintly  said  : — 

"  Grand  Trunk  Junction '  Passengers  going  east  by  the  Grand  Trunk 
change  cars!" 

He  was  so  quiet  after  that  that  all  the  men  gathered  around  the  bed, 
believing  that  he  was  dead.  His  eyes  closed,  and  the  brakeman  lifted  his 
hand,  moved  his  head,  and  whispered : — = 

"De— " 

Not  "  Detroit,"  but  Death !  He  died  with  the  half-uttered  whisper  on 
his  lips.  And  the  headlight  on  death's  engine  shone  full  in  his  face,  and 
covered  it  with  such  pallor  as  naught  but  death  can  bring. 


THE  BURIED  FLOWER. 


W.  E.  AYTOUN. 


^jj^N  the  silence  of  ray  chamber, 
W^      "Whon  the  night  is  still  ami  deep, 
<(^  An<l  the  drowsy  heave  ot  ocean 
^•'/^       Mutters  in  its  charmed  sleep, 
% 

W     Oft  1  hear  the  angel  voicf-s 
i  That  have  tlirilled  mc  long  ago, — 

Voices  of  my  lost  companions, 
Lying  deo[>  bcnrath  the  snow. 

Where  are  now  tiio  flowers  we  tended  ? 

Withered,  broken,  branch  and  stem  ; 
Where  are  now  the  hopes  we  cherished  ? 

Scattered  to  the  winds  with  Ihorn. 

For  ye,  too,  were  flowers,  ye  tlcar  ones ! 
Nursed  in  hope  and  reared  in  love. 


Looking  fondly  ever  upward 
To  the  clear  blue  hoavon  above  , 

Smiling  on  the  sun  that  cheered  us. 

Rising  lightly  from  the  rain. 
Never  folding  up  your  freshness 

Save  to  give  it  forth  again. 

0,  'tis  sad  to  lie  and  reckon 
All  the  days  of  faded  J'outh, 

All  tin;  vows  that  WO  believed  in, 
AH  (he  words  wo  spoke  in  truth 

Severed, — wore  it  severi'<l  only 
By  an  idle  thought  of  strife, 

Such  as  time  may  knit  together; 
Not  the  broken  chord  ',f  life' 


I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 


273 


0,  I  fling  my  spirit  backward, 
And  I  pass  o'er  years  of  pain  ; 

Robed  in  everlasting  beauty. 
Shall  I  see  thee  once  again. 

A.11  I  loved  is  rising  round  me. 
All  the  lost  returns  again. 

Brighter,  fairer  far  than  living. 

By  the  light  that  never  fadeth, 

Underneath  eternal  skies. 
When  the  dawn  of  resurrection 

With  no  trace  of  woe  or  pain. 

Breaks  o'er  deathless  Paradise. 

UNION  AND  LIBERTY. 


0.    W.    HOLMES. 


§LAG  of  the  heroes  who  left   us   their 
glory, 
ci^.i-a.     Borne    through  their   battle-fields' 
J*  thunder  and  flame, 

M     Blazoned  in  song  and  illumined  in  story, 
I  Wave  o'er  us  all  who  inherit  their  fame. 

Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light. 
Spread  its   fair  emblems  from  mountain  to 
shore, 
While  through  the  sounding  sky 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry — 
Union  and  Liberty  !     One  Evermore  ! 

Light  of  our  firmament,  guide  of  our  Nation, 
Pride  of  her  children,  and  honored  afar. 

Let  the  wide  beams  of  thy  full  constellation 
Scatter  each  cloud  that  would  darken  a 
star! 

Empire  unsceptred !     what   foe   shall   assail 
thee 
Bearing  the  standard  of  Liberty's  van  ? 


Think  not  the  God  of  thy  fathers  shall  fail 
thee, 
Striving  with  men  for  the  birthright  of  man ' 

Yet  if,  by  madness  and  treachery  blighted, 
Dawns  the  dark  hour  when  the  sword  thou 
must  draw 
Then  with  the  arms  to  thy  million  united, 
Smite  the  bold   traitors  to   Freedom  and 
Law ! 

Lord  of  the  universe !  shield  us  and  guide  us, 
Trusting   Thee   always,   through    shadow 
and  sun !  ^ 
Thou  hast  united  us,  who  shall  divide  us  ? 
Keep  us,  0  keep  us  the  Many  in  One  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
•  Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to 
shore, 
While  through  the  sounding  sky 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry — 
Union  and  Liberty  !    One  Evekmobe  » 


/  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 


THOMAS   HOOD. 


REMEMBER,  I  remember 

The  house  where  I  was  born. 

The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn. 


He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a  day  ; 

But  now  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  born«  my  breath  away  ! 


274 


ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP. 


I  remember,  I  remember 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

The  roses,  red  and  white. 

That  is  so  heavy  now. 

The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups, — 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 

The  fever  on  my  brow  ! 

The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  laburnum  on  his  birth-day, — 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high ; 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance. 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing. 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

To  swallows  on  the  wing ; 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP. 


^^ACKWAKD,  turn  backward,  0  Time, 

^pSK       in  your  flight, 

'  •      .,•'   Make  me  a  rhild  again  just  for  to- 

.      '        night! 
««.'  Mother,  come  buf:k  from  the  echoless 

J-  shore, 

J  Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of 

yore; 
KIbb  from  my  foreheafi  the  furrows  of  care, 
.Smooth   the   f'w    Hilver    tliread.s    out  of  my 

hair  ; 
Over  my  Hluiiih<:rH  your  loving  wat<li  keep; — 
Rock  mo  to  Hlcfj),  riioth'T, — rork  mo  to  sloop! 

Ba'kward,    flow    baikward,    oh,    tido  of  the 
yeara ! 


ELIZABETH   AZERS. 


I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears, — 

Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain,— w 

Take   tliom,    and    give    mo    my    childhood 

again ! 
I  have  grown  woary  of  <lust  and  decay, — 
Weary  of  flinging  my  boul-woalth  away; 
Woary  of  Bowing  for  others  to  reap  : — 
Rock  mo  to  sloop,  motlior, — rock  mo  to  Hlocp! 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  tlio  base,  tho  untrue, 
Mother,  O  Mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you ! 
Many  a  Bummor  the  graHH  has  grown  gro.c'u, 
BlosHomod  and  faded,  our  faces  botwo(>n ; 
Yet,  with  strong   yearning  mid    passiouat* 

pain. 
Long  I  to-night  for  your  i)reBeuco  again. 


THE  GAMIN. 


275 


Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep ; — 
Kock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Over  my  heart,  in  the  days  that  are  flown, 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone ; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures, — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours ; 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and    the    world-weary 

brain. 
Slumber's    soft  calms    o'er  my  heavy  lids 

creep ; 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with 

gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old ; 


Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light; 
For  with  its  sunny-edged  shadows  once  more 
Haply  will    throng    the    sweet    visions  of 

yore; 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have  beem 

long 
Since  I  last  listened  your  lullaby  song  ; 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream. 
Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace, 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  rny  face. 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 


THE  GAMIN. 


VICTOE    HUGO. 


^HARIS  has  a  child ;  the  forest   has  a  bird.     The  bird  is  called  a  spar- 
^^     row ;  the  child  is  called  a  gamin.     His  origin  is  from  the  rabble. 
X  The  most  terrible  embodiment  of  the  rabble  is  the  barricade,  and 

*  the  most  terrible  of  barricades  was  that  of  Faubourg  St.  Antoine. 
i  The  street  was  deserted  as  far  as  could  be  seen.  Every  door  and 
J  window  was  closed;  in  the  background  rose  a  wall  built  of  paving 
stones,  making  the  street  a  cul-de-sac.  Nobody  could  be  seen ;  nothing 
could  be  heard;  not  a  cry,  not  a  sound,  not  a  breath.  A  sepulchre!  From 
time  to  time,  if  anybody  ventured  to  cros3  the  street,  the  sharp,  low 
whistling  of  a  bullet  was  heard,  and  the  passer  fell  dead  or  wounded.  For 
the  space  of  two  days  this  barricade  had  resisted  the  troops  of  Paris,  and 
now  its  ammunition  was  gone.  During  a  lull  in  the  firing,  a  gamin,  named 
Gavroche,  took  a  basket,  went  out  into  the  street  by  an  opening,  and  began 
to  gather  up  the  full  cartridge-boxes  of  the  National  Guards  who  had  been 
killed  in  front  of  the  barricade.  By  successive  advances  he  reached  a 
point  where  the  fog  from  the  firing  became  transparent,  so  that  the  sharp- 
shooters of  the  line,  drawn  up  and  on  the  alert,  suddenly  discovered  some- 
thing moving  in  the  smoke.  Just  as  Gavroche  was  relieving  a  Grenadier 
of  his  cartridges  a  ball  struck  the  body.  "  They  are  kilHng  my  dead  for 
toe,"  said  the  gamin.     A  second  ball  splintered  the  pavement  behind  him. 


276  I  LOVE  THE  MORNING  SUNSHINE. 


A  third  upset  his  basket.  Gavroclie  rose  up  straight  on  his  feet,  his  hair 
in  the  wind,  his  hands  upon  his  hips,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  National 
Guard,  who  were  firing ;  and  he  sang : 

"They  are  ugly  at  Naterre — 'tis  the  fault  of  Voltaire; 
And  beasts  at  Palaeseau — 'tis  the  fault  of  Rousseau." 

Then  he  picked  up  his  basket,  put  into  it  the  cartridges  which  had  fallen 
out,  without  losing  a  single  one ;  and  advancing  toward  the  fusilade,  began 
to  empty  another  cartridge-box.  Then  a  fourth  ball  just  missed  him 
again ;  Gavroche  sang : 

"I  am  only  a  scribe,  'tis  the  fault  of  Voltaire; 
My  life  one  of  woe — 'tis  the  fault  of  Rousseau." 

The  sight  was  appalling  and  fascinating.  Gavroche  fired  at,  mocked  the 
firing  and  answered  each  discharge  with  a  couplet.  The  National  Guards 
laughed  as  they  aimed  at  him.  He  lay  down,  then  rose  up ;  hid  himself 
in  a  door-way,  then  sprang  out;  escaped,  returned.  The  insurgents, 
breathless  with  anxiety,  followed  him  with  their  eyes ;  the  barricade  was 
trembling,  he  was  singing.  It  was  not  a  child,  it  was  not  a  man  ;  it  was 
a  strange  fairy  gamin,  playing  hide  and  seek  with  Death. 

Every  time  the  face  of  the  grim  spectre  approached,  the  gamin  snapped 
his  fingers.  One  bullet,  however,  better  aimed  or  more  treacherous  than 
the  others,  reached  the  will-o'-the-wisp  child.  They  saw  Gavroche  totter, 
then  fall.  The  whole  barricade  gave  a  cry.  But  the  gamin  had  fallen 
only  to  rise  again.  A  long  stream  of  blood  rolled  down  his  face.  He 
raised  both  arms  in  the  air,  looked  in  the  direction  whence  the  shot  came, 
and  began  to  sing : 

"  I  am  bund  in  earth — 'tis  the  fault " 

He  did  not  finish.  A  second  ball  from  the  same  marksman  cut  him 
short.  This  time  he  fell  with  his  face  upon  the  pavement  and  did  not  stir 
again.     That  little  great  soul  had  taken  flight. 


/  LOVE  THE  MORNING  SUNSHINE. 


ROBERT    LOWRY. 


LOVE  the  morning  Bunshine — 
For  'tis  bringing  to  the  flinging 

Of  tlie  oarly-matine'l  birfla, 

Daylight'H  troasuro,  without  moaflure, 

Speaking  joy  with  gentle  worda. 


1  love  the  morning  sunshine — 
For  it  lightens,  warms,  and  briglitens 

Every  hillside  tinged  with  gloom  ; 
An<l  its  power,  every  hour, 

Calls  o'en  spirits  from  their  tomb. 


CRADLE  SONG. 


277 


I  love  the  morning  sunshine — 
For  its  gushing,  like  the  rushing 

Of  a  molten  tide  of  gold, 
Ripples  o'er  me  and  before  me. 

And  my  heart  cannot  be  cold. 

I  love  the  morning  sunshine — 
For  'tis  telling  that  the  knelling 
Of  each  cycling  day  shall  cease, 


And  the  dawning  of  a  morning 
Never  ending  will  bring  peace. 

I  love  the  morning  sunshine — 
For  it  lies  on  Life's  horizon. 

Pointing  out  an  untombed  sward. 
Where  the  spirit  shall  inherit 

Golden  daysprings  from  the  Lord. 


THE  ANGEL'S  WHISPER. 


SAMUEL     LOVER. 


^■^Qii^ 


i 


And 


BABY  was  sleeping ; 

Its  mother  was  weeping  ; 
For  her  husband  was  far   on  the 
wild  raging  sea ; 
And  the  tempest  was  swelling 
Round  the  fisherman's  dwelling ; 
she    cried,  "  Dermot,    darling,   0 
come  back  to  me!" 


Her  beads  while  she  numbered, 

The  baby  still  slumbered. 
And  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her  knee : 

"  0,  blest  be  that  warning, 

My  child,  thy  sleep  adorning, 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering 
with  thee. 


"  And  while  they  are  keeping 
Bright  watch  o'er  thy  sleeping, 

0,  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me! 
And  say  thou  wouldst  rather 
They'd  watch  o'er  thy  father  ! 

For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering 
to  thee." 

The  dawn  of  the  morning 
Saw  Dermot  returning. 
Ana  the  wife   wept  with   joy  her  babe's 
father  to  see ; 
And  closely  caressing 
Her  child  with  a  blessing. 
Said,  "  I  knew  that  the  angels  were  whisper- 
ing with  thee." 


CRADLE  SONG. 


JOSIAH    GILBERT   HOLLAND. 


;fHAT  is  the  little  one  thinking  about? 
rU  Very  wonderful  things,  no  doubt; 

Unwritten  history ! 
"^  Unfathomed  mystery  \ 

Yet  he  chuckles,  and  crows,  and 

nods  and  winks 
As  if  hia  head  were  as  full  of  kinks, 
And  curious  riddles  as  any  sphinx! 
Warped  by  colic,  and  wet  by  tears, 


Punctured  by  pins,  and  tortured  by  feara 
Our  little  nephew  will  lose  two  years  ; 
And  he'll  never  know 
Where  the  summers  go  ; 
He  need  not  laugh,  for  he'll  find  it  so. 

I  Who  can  tell  what  a  baby  thinks? 
j  Who  can  follow  the  go.'sanifr  links 
j       By  which  the  manikin  feels  its  way 


278 


THE  HERO  OP  THE  COMMUNE. 


Out  from  the  shore  of  the  great  unknown, 
Blind,  and  wailing,  and  alone, 

Into  the  light  of  the  day  ? 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  unknown  sea. 
Tossing  in  -pitiful  agony ; 
Of  the  unknown  sea  that  reels  and  rolls, 
Specked  with  the  barks  of  little  souls, — 
Barks  that  were  launched  on  the  other  side, 
And  slipped  from  heaven  on  an  ebbing  tide  ! 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  eyes  ? 
What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  hair  ? 

What  of  the  cradle-roof,  that  flies 
Forward  and  backward  through  the  air  ? 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  breast, 
Bare  and  beautiful,  smooth  and  white, 
Socking  it  ever  with  fresh  delight, 


Cup  of  his  life,  and  couch  of  his  rest  ? 
What  does  he  think  when  her  quick  embrace 
Presses  his  hand  and  buries  his  face 
Deep  where  the  heart-throbs  sink  and  swell. 
With  a  tenderness  she  never  can  tell. 

Though  she  murmur  the  words 

Of  all  the  birds,— 
Words  she  has  learned  to  murmur  well  ? 

Now  he  thinks  he'll  go  to  sleep  ! 

I  can  see  the  shadow  creep 
Over  his  eyes  in  soft  eclipse,  . 
Over  his  brow  and  over  his  lips. 
Out  to  his  little  finger-tips  ! 
Softly  sinking,  down  he  goes ! 
Down  he  goes !  down  he  goes  ! 
See !  he's  hushed  in  sweet  repose. 


THE  HERO  OF  THE  COMMUNE. 


MARGARET   J,    PRESTON. 


I^ARCON !     You,  you 
""^  Snared  along  with  this  cursed  crew? 
(Only  a  child,  and  yet  so  bold, 
Scarcely  as  much  as  ten  years  old !) 
Do  you  hear  ?  do  you  know 
Why    the  gens    darmes    put    you 
there,  in  the  row, 
You  with  those  Commune  wretches  tall. 
With  your  face  to  the  wall  ? 

Know?  To  be  sure  I  know!  Why  not? 
We're  here  to  be  shot ; 
And  there  by  the  pillar's  the  very  spot, 
Fighting  for  France,  my  father  f<.'ll. 
Ah,  well  !— 
That's  just  the  way  /would  rhooso  to  fall, 
With  my  bark  to  the  wall!" 

'(Sacro!  Fair,  open  fight  I  Hay, 

Is  something  right  gallant  in  its  way, 

And  fine  for  warming   the   blood ;  but 
who 

Want'i  wolfiwh  work  like  this  to  do  ? 
Bah!  'tis  a  butf-her's  biisineHHlj  Jlowf 
CThe  boy  is  beckoning  to  me  now : 


I  knew  that  this  poor  child's  heart  would 
fail, 

Yet  his  cheek's  not  pale  :) 

Quick  !  say  your  say,  for  don't  you  see 
When  the  church-clock  yonder  tolls  out  Three, 
You  are  all  to  be  shot  ? 
—  What  f 
'  Excuse  you  one  moment  f  0,  ho,  ho  ! 
Do  you  think  to  fool  a  gen  darmes  so  ?" 

"But,  sir,  here's  a  watch   that  a  friend,  one 

day, 
(My  father's  friend)  just  over  the  way. 
Lent  me  ;  and  if  you  let  me  free — 
It  still  lacks  seven  minutes  of  Three — 
I'll  come  (jn  the  word  of  a  soldier's  son, 
Straight  back   into  line,  when   my  errand'i 

done." 

"  Ha,  ha!  No  doubt  of  it!     Off!   Begone? 
(Now,  good  St.  Dennis,  speed  him  on  ! 
The  work  will  be  (jasicr  since  he's  saved  ; 
For  I  liardly  see  how  I  could  have  braved 
The  ardor  of  that  innocent  eye. 


THE  DUMB-WAITER. 


279 


As  he  stood  and  heard, 

While  I  gave  the  word, 

Dooming  him  like  a  dog  to  die.)" 

"  In  time  ?     Well,  thanks,  that  my  desire 
Wa«  granted ;  and  now  I'm  ready  ; — Fire 
One  word ! — that's  all ! 


— You'll    let    me    turn  'my    hack    to    the 
wall  ?" 

"  Parbleu !  Come  out  of  the  line,  I  say, 
Come  out!    (Who  said  that  his   name   was 

Ney?) 
Ha!  France  will  hear  of  him  yet,  one  day  I'' 


THE  DUMB-WAITER. 


FREDERICK  S.  COZZENS. 


-E  have  put  a  dumb-waiter  in  our  house.  A  dumb-waiter  is  a  good 
thing  to  have  in  the  country,  on  account  of  its  convenience.  If 
you  have  company,  every  thing  can  be  sent  up  from  the  kitchen 
without  any  trouble ;  and  if  the  baby  gets  to  be  unbearable,  on 
account  of  his  teeth,  you  can  dismiss  the  complainant  by  stuffing 
him  into  one  of  the  shelves,  and  letting  him  down  upon  the  help. 
To  provide  for  contingencies,  we  had  all  our  floors  deafened.  In  conse- 
quence,  you  cannot  hear  anything  that  is  going  on  in  the  story  below ; 
and  when  you  are  in  an  upper  room  of  the  house,  there  might  be  a  demo- 
cratic ratification- meeting  in  the  cellar,  and  you  would  not  know  it. 
Therefore,  if  any  one  should  break  into  the  basement,  it  would  not  disturb 
us ;  but  to  please  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass,  I  put  stout  iron  bars  on  all  the  lower 
windows.  Besides,  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  had  bought  a  rattle  when  she  was 
in  Philadelphia ;  such  a  rattle  as  watchmen  carry  there.  This  is  to  alarm 
our  neighbor,  who,  upon  the  signal,  is  to  come  to  the  rescue  with  his  revol- 
ver. He  is  a  rash  man,  prone  to  pull  trigger  fii-st,  and  make  inquiries 
afterward. 

One  evening  Mrs.  S.  had  retired,  and  I  was  busy  writing,  when  it  struck 
me  a  glass  of  ice-water  would  be  palatable.  So  I  took  the  candle  and  a 
pitcher,  and  went  down  to  the  pump.  Our  pump  is  in  the  kitchen.  A 
country  pump  in  the  kitchen  is  more  convenient;  but  a  well  with  buckets 
is  certainly  most  picturesque.  Unfortunately  our  well-water  has  not  been 
sweet  since  it  was  cleaned  out. 

First,  I  had  to  open  a  bolted  door  that  lets  you  into  the  basement  hall, 
and  then  I  went  to  the  kitchen  door,  which  proved  to  be  locked.  Then  I 
remembered  that  our  girl  always  carried  the  key  to  bed  with  her,  and 
slept  with  it  under  her  pillow.  Then  I  retraced  my  steps;  bolted  the 
basement  door,  and  went  up  into  the  dining-room.      As  is  always    the 


280  THE  DUMB-WAITER. 


case,  I  found-,  wlien  I  could  not  get  any  water  I  was  thirstier  than  I 
supposed  I  was.  Then  I  thought  I  would  wake  our  girl  up.  Then  I  con- 
cluded not  to  do  it.  Then  I  thought  of  the  well,  but  I  gave  that  up  on 
account  of  its  flavor.  Then  I  opened  the  closet  doors :  there  was  no  water 
there;  and  then  I  thought  of  the  dumb-waiter!  The  novelty  of  the  idea 
made  me  smile;  I  took  out  two  of  the  movable  shelves,  stood  the  pitcher 
on  the  bottom  of  the  dumb-waiter,  got  in  myself  with  the  lamp ;  let  myself 
down  until  I  supposed  I  was  within  a  foot  of  the  floor  below,  and  then  let 

go. 

We  came  down  so  suddenly  that  I  was  shot  out  of  the  apparatus  as  if  it 
had  been  a  catapult ;  it  broke  the  pitcher,  extinguished  the  lamp,  and 
landed  me  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen  at  midnight,  with  no  fire,  and  the 
air  not  much  above  the  zero  point.  The  truth  is,  I  had  miscalculated  the 
distance  of  the  descent, — instead  of  falling  one  foot,  I  had  fallen  five.  My 
first  impulse  was,  to  ascend  by  the  way  I  came  down,  but  I  found  that  im- 
practicable. Then  I  tried  the  kitchen  door:  it  w;is  locked.  I  tried  to 
force  it  open ;  it  was  made  of  two-inch  stuff",  and  held  its  own.  Then  I 
hoisted  a  window,  and  there  were  the  rigid  iron  bars.  If  I  ever  felt  angry 
at  anybody  it  was  at  myself,  for  putting  up  those  bars  to  plea~.3  Mrs 
Sparrowgrass.  I  put  them  up,  not  to  keep  people  in,  but  to  keep  people 
out. 

I  laid  ray  cheek  against  the  ice-cold  barriers,  and  looked  at  the  sky ;  not 
a  star  was  visible ;  it  was  as  black  as  ink  overhead.  Then  I  thought  of 
Baron  Trenck  and  the  prisoner  of  Chillon.  Then  I  made  a  noise  !  I 
shouted  until  I  was  hoarse,  and  ruined  our  preserving-kettle  with  the 
poker.  That  brought  our  dogs  out  in  full  bark,  and  between  us  we  made 
the  night  hideous.  Then  I  thought  I  heard  a  voice,  and  listened  :  it  was 
Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  calling  to  me  from  the  top  of  the  stair-case.  I  tried 
to  make  her  hear  me,  but  the  infernal  dogs  united  with  howl,  and  growl, 
and  bark,  so  as  to  drown  my  voice,  which  is  naturally  plaintive  and  ten- 
dor.  Besides,  there  were  two  bolted  doors  and  double-doafenod  floors  be- 
tween us.     How  could  she  recognize  my  voice,  even  if  she  did  hear  it? 

Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  called  once  or  twice,  and  then  got  frightonod ; 
the  next  thing  I  heard  was  a  sound  as  if  the  roof  had  fallen  in,  by  which  I 
understood  that  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  was  springing  the  rattle !  That  called 
out  our  neighbor,  already  wide  awake;  he  came  to  the  rescue  with  a  bull- 
terrier,  a  Newfoundland  pup,  a  lantern,  and  a  revolver.  Tlu;  moment  ho 
paw  me  at  the  window,  he  shot  at  mo,  but  fortunatoly  just  missed  mo.  I 
thi'ow  mys.'lf  under  the  kitchen  tablo,  and  vintuicd  to  cx{)Ostulatc  with 
Kim,  but  he  would  not  listen  to  reason.     In  the  excitement  I  liad  forgotten 


FLORENCE  VANE. 


281 


his  name,  and  that  made  matters  worse.  It  was  not  until  he  had  roused 
up  everybody  around,  broken  in  the  basement  door  with  an  axe,  gotten 
into  the  kitchen  with  his  cursed  savage  dogs  and  shooting-iron,  and  seized 
mo  by  the  collar,  that  he  recognized  me, — and  then  he  wanted  me  to  ex- 
[)lain  it!  But  what  kind  of  an  explanation  could  I  make  to  him?  I  told 
hira  be  would  have  to  wait  until  my  mind  was  composed,  and  then  I  would 
let  him  understand  the  matter  fully.  But  he  never  would  have  had  the 
particulars  from  me,  for  I  do  not  approve  of  neighbors  that  shoot  at  you, 
break  in  your  door,  and  treat  you  in  your  own  house  as  if  you  were  a  jail- 
bird. He  knows  all  about  it,  however, — somebody  has  told  hira — sorne- 
hody  tells  everybody  every  thing  in  our  village. 


FLORENCE  VANE. 


PHILIP    P.    COOKE. 


LOVED  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane ; 
My  life's  bright  dream  and  early 

Hath  come  again ; 
I  renew  in  my  fond  vision 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hopes  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane  ! 

The  ruin,  lone  and  hoary. 

The  ruin  old. 
Where  thou  did'st  hark  my  story 

At  even  told, 
That  spot,  the  hues  elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain 
I  treasure  in  my  vision, 

Florence  Vane ! 


Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime ; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme ; 
Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main. 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane. 


But  fairest,  coldest  wonder ! 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under ; 

Alas  the  day ! 


282 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 


And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain, 
To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane ! 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 


The  daisies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep. 

May  their  bloom  in  beauty  vying 
Never  wane 

Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 
Florence  Vane. 


RING  THE  BELL  SOFTLY. 


DEXTER    SMITH. 


^^yfOME  one  has  gone  from  this  strange 
^^^  world  of  ours, 


-^ 


No  more  to  gather  its  thorns  with 
its  flowers  ; 

No  more  to  linger  where  sunbeams  must  fade, 
\Vhere  on  all  beauty  death's  fingers  are  laid ; 
Weary  with  mingling  life's  bitter  and  sweet, 
Weary  with  parting  and  never  to  meet, 
Some  one  has  gone  to  the  bright  golden  shore ; 
Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  on  the  door ! 
Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  on  the  door ! 

Some  one  is  resting  from  Borrow  and  sin, 
Happy  where  earth's  conflicts  enter  not  in, 
Joyous  as  birds  when  the  morning  is  bright, 
When  the  sweet  sunbeams  have  brought  us 
their  light. 


Weary  with  sowing  and  never  to  reap, 
Weary  with  labor,  and  welcoming  sleep, 
Some  one's  departed  to  heaven's  bright  shore. 
Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  on  the  door ! 
Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  on  the  door ! 

Angels  were  anxiously  longing  to  meet 
One  who  walks  with  them  in  heaven's  bright 

street ; 
Loved  ones  have  whispered  that  some  one 

is  blest, — 
Free  from  earth's  trials  and  taking  sweet  rest. 
Yes !  there  is  one  more  in  angelic  bliss, — 
One  less  to  cherish  and  one  less  to  kiss  ; 
One  more  departed  to  heaven's  bright  shore ; 
Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  on  the  door  1 
Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  on  the  door! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIBT. 


THOMAS   HOOD. 


^A Til  fingf^rs  weary  and  worn, 
^       With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt. 
And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous 
pitch. 
She  Bang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt !" 

"  Work  !  work  !  work  ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof: 
And  work — work — work  ! 

Till  the  stars  ehino  through  the  roof! 


It's  oh  !  to  bo  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  sav*, 

If  THIS  is  Christian  work  '. 


"  Work — work — work  ! 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ! 
Work — work — work  ! 

Till  thf'  oyos  arc  heavy  and  dim! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  ban'l. 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  scam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  8CW  them  on  in  my  dream! 


THE  WHISTLE. 


283 


"  Oh  !  men  with  sisters  dear  ! 

Oh  !  men  with  mothers  and  wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  3HK0UJJ  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

*  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death. 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fast  I  keep : 
0  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

"  Work — work — work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?  A  bed  of  straw. 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags : 
A  shatter'd  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

"•Work — work — work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime ; 
Work — work — work  ! 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumb'd. 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand  ! 


"  Work — work — work  ! 

In  the  dull  December  light; 
And  work — work — work  ! 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling. 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 

"  Oh  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet ; 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet: 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel. 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"  Oh  !  but  for  one  short  hour ! 

A  respite,  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart — 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  the  needle  and  thread  !" 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread : 
Stitch— stitch— stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  !- 

She  sung  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt !" 


THE  WHISTLE. 


,  .'~;'fe^, , 


ROBERT    STORY. 


»U  have  heard,"  said  a  youth  to 
his  sweetheart,  who  stood. 
While  he  sat  on  a  corn-sheaf,  at 
daylight's  decline, — 
"  You  have   heard   of  the  Danish 
boy's  whistle  of  wood  ? 
I  wish  that  that  Danish  boy's 
whistle  were  mine." 


'  And  what  would  you  do  with  it  ? — tell  me," 

she  said. 
While  an  arch  smile  played  over  her  beac 

tiful  face. 
I  would  blow  it,"  he  answered;  "  and  then 

my  fair  maid 
Would  fly  to  my  side,  and  would  here  taxa 

her  place." 


284 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND. 


"Is  that  all  you  wish  it  for? — That  may  be 

"  Yet  once  more  would  I  blow   and  the  mu?ic 

yours 

divine 

Without    any    magic,"    the    fair    maiden 

Would  bring  me  the  third  time  an  exqui- 

cried: 

site  bliss : 

■*  A  favor  so  light  one's  good  nature  secures" ; 

You  would  lay  your  fair  cheek  to  this  brown 

And  she  playfully  seated  herself  by  his 

one  of  mine, 

side. 

And  your  lips,  stealing  past  it,  would  giv* 

me  a  kiss." 

I    yould  blow  it  again,"  said  the  youth. 

"  and  the  charm 

The   maiden    laughed    out   in   her   innocent 

Would  work  so,  that  not  even  Modesty's 

glee,— 

check 

"  What  a  fool  of  yourself  with  your  whistle 

Would  be  able  to  keep  from  my  neck  your 

you'd  make  ! 

fine  arm" : 

For  only  consider,  how  silly 't  would  be. 

She   smiled, — and  she   laid   her  fine   arm 

To  sit  there  and  whistle  for — what  you 

round  his  neck. 

might  take." 

A  SUFI  SAINT. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  PERSIAN  BY  WM.  R.  ALGER. 


^';T  heaven  approached  a  Sufi  Saint, 

From  groping  in  the  darkness  late, 
And,  tapping  timidly  and  faint. 
Besought  admission  at  God's  gate. 

Said  God,  "  Who  seeks  to  enter  here?" 

Xis  I,  dear  Friend,"  the  Saint  replied, 
And  trembling  much  with  hope  and  fear. 
"  If  it  be  thou,  without  abide." 

Sadly  to  earth  the  poor  Saint  turned. 
To  bear  the  scourging  of  life's  rods ; 


But  aye  his  heart  within  him  yearned 
To  mix  and  lose  its  love  in  God's. 

He  roamed  alone  through  weary  years, 
By  cruel  men  still  scorned  and  mocked, 

Until  from  faith's  pure  fires  and  tears 
Again  he  rose,  and  modest  knocked. 

Asked  God,  "  Who  now  is  at  the  door?" 
"  It  is  thyself,  beloved  Lord," 

Answered  the  Saint,  in  doubt  no  more, 
But  clasped  and  rapt  in  his  reward. 


BUBAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND. 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


N  rural  occupation  tlierc  i.s  notliing  iiican  and  (lc])a.siug.  It  leads  a 
man  forth  among  scenes  of  natural  grandeur  and  beauty  ;  it  leaves 
him  to  the  working.s  of  his  own  mind,  operated  upon  by  the  purest 
and  most  elevating  of  external  influences.  The  man  of  refinement, 
therefore,  finds  nothing  revolting  in  an  intercourse  with  the  lower 
ord(!rs  of  rural  life,  as  he  does  when  h.-  casually  mingles  with  (Ik; 
lower  orders  of  cities.  lie  lays  aside  his  di.stance  and  rcsc^rve,  and  is  glad 
to  waive  the  distinctions  of  rank,  and  to  enter  into  the  honest  h(>artfelt 
enjoyments  of  common  life.     Indeed  the  very  amusements  of  the  country 


THE  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 


285 


bring  men  more  and  more  together,  and  the  sound  of  hound  and  horn 
blend  all  feelings  into  harmony.  I  believe  this  is  one  great  reason  why 
the  nobility  and  gentry  are  more  popular  among  the  inferior  orders  in 
England  than 
they  are  in  any 
other  country  ; 
and  why  the  lat- 
ter have  endured 
so  many  exces- 
sive pressures 
and  extremities, 
without  repining 
more  generally 
at  the  unequal 
distribution  of 
fortune  and  privilege. 

To  this  mingling  of  cultivated  and  rustic  society  may  also  be  attribu- 
ted the  rural  feeling  that  runs  through  British  literature  ;  the  frequent  use 
of  illustrations  from  rural  life  ;  those  incomparable  descriptions  of  nature 
which  abound  in  the  British  poets,  that  have  continued  down  from  "  The 
Flower  and  the  Leaf  "  of  Chaucer,  and  have  brought  into  our  closets  all 
the  freshness  and  fragrance  of  the  dewy  landscape.  The  pastoral  writers 
of  other  countries  appear  as  if  they  had  paid  Nature  an  occasional  visit, 
and  become  acquainted  with  her  general  charms  ;  but  the  British  poets 
have  revelled  with  her — they  have  wooed  her  in  her  most  secret  haunts— 
they  have  watched  her  minutest  caprices.  A  spray  could  not  tremble  m 
the  breeze— a  leaf  could  not  rustle  to  the  ground— a  diamond  drop  could 
not  patter  in  the  stream— a  fragrance  could  not  exhale  from  the  humble 
violet,  nor  a  daisy  unfold  its  crimson  tints  to  the  morning,  but  it  has  been 
noticed  by  these  impassioned  and  delicate  observers,  and  wrought  up  into 
some  beautiful  morality. 


THE  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 


ELIZA    COOK. 


LOVE  it,  I  love  it !  and  who  shall  uare 
To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm- 
chair ? 
r  ve  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize, 


I've  bedewed  it  with  tears,  I've  embalmed 

it  with  sighs. 
'Tis  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart,- 
Not  a  tic  wdl  break,  not  a  link  will  start; 


me 


THE  PALACE  0' 


THE  K 


ING. 


Would  you  know  the  spell  ? — a  mother  sat 

there ! 
And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

Id  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 
The  hallowed  seat  with  listening  ear ; 
^nd  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give 
To  fit  me  to  die,  and  teach  me  to  live. 


And    I   almost   worshipped    her   when    she 

smiled, 
And   turned   from   her    Bible   to    bless    hei 

child. 
Years  rolled  on,  but  the  last  one  sped, — 
My  idol  was  shattered,  my  earth-star  fled! 
I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear. 
When  I  saw  her  die  in  her  old  arm-ch»ir. 


"  In  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 
The  hallowed  seat  with  listening  ear." 


She  told  me  that  shame  would  never  betide 
With   truth  for  my  creed,  and   God  for  my 

guide; 
She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer. 
As  I  kneit  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I  sat  and  watched  her  many  a  day. 


'Tis  past,  'tis  past !  but  I  gaze  on  it  now, 
With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow  . 
'Twas  there  she  nursed  me,  'twas  there  slie 

died. 
And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 
8ay  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak. 
Whilst  scalding  drops  start  down  my  choek 


W'lK-n  her  eyes  grew  dim,  and  lier  locks  were      But  I  love  it,  I  love  it,  and  cannot  tear 
gray ;  •  My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-chair. 


Tiri'J  PALACE  0'  THE  KING. 


WFLTJAM    MITCHELL. 


*T'S  a   bonnie,  bonnio  warl'    tliat    Wi'n;  For  its  beauty  is  as   naelhing  to   the  pal»«5« 
livin'  in  the  noo,  o'  tlio  King. 

P   An-HunnyiH   the  Ian'   we  aft.m    traivel   ,  y^^_  ,,,^,^  ^,,^  ^^^^^  ^unmor,   wi'    its    merry, 

""'^'  '<  I  merry  tread, 

But  in  vain   wo  look  for  sornelhrng  to  ^,,.  ^^,^  ^j^,,  ^,_,.,,  l.oary  winter  lays  it«  beaa 
J            which  our  hearts  ran  cling,  ^^^^  ^|.  ^j^^  j,,^j . 


PIP'S  FIGHT. 


287 


For  though   bonnie   are  the  snawflakes,  an' 

the  down  on  winter's  wing, 
It's  fine  to  ken  it  daurna'  touch  the  palace  o' 
the  King. 

Then  again,    I've  juist   been   thinkin'  that 

when  a'thing  here's  sae  bricht, 
The  sun  in  a'  its  grandeur  an'  the  mune  wi' 

quiverin'  licht, 
The  ocean  i'  the  simmer  or  the  woodland  i' 

the  spring, 
What  maun  it  be  up  yonder  i'  the  palace  o' 

the  King. 

It's  here  we  hae  oor  trials,  an'  it's  here  that 
he  prepares 

A'  his  chosen  for  the  raiment  which  the  ran- 
somed sinner  wears. 

An'  it's  here  that  he  wad  hear  us,  'mid  oor 
tribulations  sing, 

"We'll  trust  oor  God  wha  reigneth  i'  the 
palace  o'  the  King." 

Though  his  palace  is  up  yonder,  he  has  king- 
doms here  below. 

An'  we  are  his  ambassadors,  wherever  we 
may  go ; 

We've  a  message  to  deliver,  an'  we've  lost 
anes  hame  to  bring 

To  be  leal  and  loyal-heartit  i'  the  palace  o' 
the  King. 

Oh,  it's  honor  heaped  on  honor  that  his  cour- 
tiers should  be  ta'en 

Frae  the  wand'rin'  anes  he  died  for  i'  this 
warl'  o'  sin  an'  pain, 

An'  it's  fu'eat  love  an'  service  that  the  Chris- 
tian aye  should  bring 


To  the  feet  o'  him  wha  reigneth  i'  the  palace 
o'  the  King. 

An'  let  us  trust  him  better  than   we've  ever 

done  afore. 
For  the  King  will  feed  his  servants  frae  hij 

ever  bounteous  store. 
Let  us  keep  closer  grip  o'  him,  for  time  is  on 

the  wing, 
An'  sune  he'll  come  and  tak'  us  to  the  palace 

o'  the  King. 

Its  iv'ry  halls   are  bonnie,  upon  which  the 

rainbows  shine, 
An'  its  Eden  bow'rs  are  trellised  wi'  a  never 

fadin'  vine. 
An'  the  pearly  gates  o'  heaven  do  a  glorioua 

radiance  fling 
On  the  starry  floor  that  shimmers  i'  the  pa'i- 

ace  o'  the  King. 

Nae  nicht  shall  be  in  heaven  an'  nae  deso- 
latin'  sea, 

An'  nae  tyrant  hoofe  shall  trample  i'  the  city 
o'  the  free. 

There's  an  everlastin'  daylight,  an'  a  never- 
fadin'  spring, 

Where  the  Lamb  is  a'  the  glory,  i'  the  pal- 
ace o'  the  King. 

We  see  oor  frien's  await  us  ower  yonder  at 

his  gate: 
Then  let  us  a'  be  ready,  for  ye  ken  it's  gettin' 

late. 
Let  oor  lamps  be  brichtly  burnin' ;  let's  raise 

oor  voice  an'  sing, 
"Sune  we'll  meet,  to  pairt  nae  mair,  i'  th« 

palace  o'  the  King." 


PIP'S  FIGHT. 


CHARLES    DICKENS. 


|OME  and  fight,"  said  the  pale  young  gentleman. 

What  could  I  do  but  follow  him  ?  I  have  often  asked  mysell 
the  question  since :  but  what  else  could  I  do  ?  His  manner  was  so 
final  and  I  was  so  astonished,  that  I  followed  where  he  led,  as  if  I 
had  been  under  a  spell. 


288  PIP'S  FIGHT. 


"Stop  a  minute,  though,"  he  said,  wheeling  round  before  we  had 
got  many  payees.  '*  I  ought  to  give  you  a  reason  for  fighting,  too.  There 
it  is !  "  In  a  most  irritating  manner  he  instantly  slapped  his  hands 
against  one  another,  daintily  flung  one  of  his  legs  up  behind  him,  pulled 
my  hair,  slapped  his  hands  again,  dipped  his  head,  and  butted  it  into  my 
stomach. 

The  bull-like  proceeding  last  mentioned,  besides  that  it  was  unquestion- 
ably to  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  liberty,  was  particularly  disagreeable 
just  after  bread  and  meat.  I  therefore  hit  out  at  him,  and  was  going  to 
hit  out  again,  when  he  said,  "Aha!  Would  you?"  and  began  dancing 
backward  and  forward  in  a  manner  quite  unparalleled  within  my  limited 
experience. 

"  Laws  of  the  game  !  "  said  he.  Here  he  skipped  from  his  left  leg  on 
to  his  right.  "  flegular  rules  !"  Here  he  skipped  from  his  right  leg  on  to 
his  left.  "Come  to  the  ground  and  go  through  the  preliminaries  !  "  Here 
he  dodged  backward  and  forward,  and  did  all  sorts  of  things,  while  I 
looked  helplessly  at  him. 

I  was  secretly  afraid  of  him  when  I  saw  him  so  dexterous ;  but  I  felt 
morally  and  physically  convinced  that  his  light  head  of  hair  could  have  had 
no  business  in  the  pit  of  my  stomach,  and  that  I  had  a  right  to  consider  it 
irrelevant  when  so  obtruded  on  my  attention.  Therefore,  I  followed  him 
without  a  word  to  a  retired  nook  of  the  garden,  formed  by  the  junction  of 
two  walls  and  screened  by  some  rubbish.  On  his  asking  me  if  I  was  satis- 
fied with  the  ground,  and  on  my  replying  Yes,  he  begged  my  leave  to  ab- 
sent himself  for  a  moment,  and  quickly  returned  with  a  bottle  of  water 
and  a  sponge  dipped  in  vinegar.  "  Available  for  both,"  he  said,  placing 
these  against  the  wall.  And  then  fell  to  pulling  off,  not  only  his  jacket 
and  waistcoat,  but  his  shirt  too,  in  a  manner  at  once  light-hearted,  busi- 
ness-like and  blood-thirsty. 

Although  he  did  not  look  very  healthy — having  pimples  on  his  face, 
and  a  breaking-out  at  his  mouth — these  dreadful  preparations  quite  appalled 
me.  I  judged  him  to  be  about  my  own  age,  but  ho  was  much  taller,  and 
he  had  a  way  of  spinning  himself  about  that  was  full  of  appearance.  For 
the  rest,  ho  was  a  young  gentleman  in  a  gray  suit  (when  not  denuded  for 
oattle),  with  his  elbows,  knees,  wrists,  and  heels  considerably  in  advance  of 
the  rest  of  him  aa  to  development. 

My  heart  failed  me  when  I  saw  him  squaring  at  mo  with  every  de- 
monstration of  mechanical  nicety,  and  eying  my  anatomy  as  if  he  were 
•nitiutoly  choosing  his  bone.  I  never  have  been  so  surprised  in  my  li!e  as 
.1.  was  when  I  let  out  the  first  blow,  and  saw  him  lying  on  his  Ijack,  iooiv- 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES.  289 

ing  up  at  me  with  a  bloody  nose  and  his  face  exceedingly  fore- 
shortened. 

But  he  was  on  his  feet  directly,  and  after  sponging  himself  with  a  great 
show  of  dexterity  began  squaring  again.  The  second  greatest  surprise  I 
have  ever  had  m  my  life  was  seeing  him  on  his  back  again,  looking  up  at 
me  out  of  a  black  eye. 

His  spirit  inspired  me  with  great  respect.  He  seemed  to  have  no 
strength,  and  he  never  once  hit  me  hard,  and  he  was  always  knocked 
down;  but  he  would  be  up  again  in  a  moment,  sponging  himself  or  drink- 
ing out  of  the  water-bottle,  with  the  greatest  satisfaction  in  seconding 
himself  according  to  form,  and  then  came  at  me  with  an  air  and  show  that 
made  me  believe  he  really  was  going  to  do  for  me  at  last.  He  got  heavily 
bruised,  for  I  am  sorry  to  record  that  the  more  I  hit  him,  the  harder  I  hit 
him ;  but  he  came  up  again  and  again  and  again,  until  at  last  he  got  a  bad 
fall  with  the  back  of  his  head  against  the  wall.  Even  after  that  crisis  in  our 
affairs,  he  got  up  and  turned  round  and  round  confusedly  a  few  times,  not 
knowing  where  I  was  ;  but  finally  went  on  his  knees  to  his  sponge  and 
threw  it  up  :  at  the  same  time  panting  out,  "  That  means  you  have  won." 

He  seemed  so  brave  and  innocent,  that  although  I  had  not  proposed 
the  contest  I  felt  but  a  gloomy  satisfaction  in  my  victory.  Indeed,  I  go  so 
far  as  to  hope  that  I  regarded  myself,  while  dressing,  as  a  species  of  savage 
young  wolf,  or  other  wild  beast.  However,  I  got  dressed,  darkly  wiping 
my  sanguinary  face  at  intervals,  and  I  said,  "Can  I  help  you?"  and  he 
said,  "  No,  thankee,"  and  I  said,  "  Good  afternoon,"  and  he  said,  "  Same 
to  you." 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 


MRS.    C.    F.    ALEXANDER. 


"And  he  buried  him  in  a  valley  in   the  land    of  Moab,  over  against   Beth-peor;  bnt  no  man  knowtUi  of  hu 
sepulchre  unto  this  day."     Deut.  xxxiv.  6. 


|Y  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 
In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab, 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave  ; 
But  no  man  dug  tnat  sepulchre, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er, 
For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the 
sod 
And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 


That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth  ; 
But  no  man  heard  the  tramping, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth ; 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  when  the  night  is  done. 
And  the    crimson    streak    on    the 
cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun, — 


290 


PUTTING  UP  0'  THE  STOVE. 


Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 

Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 
And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 

Open  their  thousand  leaves, — 
So,  without  sound  of  music, 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept. 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain  crown 

The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle, 

On  gray  Beth-peor's  height, 
Out  of  his  rocky  eyrie. 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight. 
Perchance  the  lion,  stalking. 

Still  shuns  the  hallowed  spot ; 
For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

Lo  !  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war. 
With  arms  reversed,  and  muffled  drum. 

Follow  the  funeral  car. 
They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won. 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed, 

While  peals  the  minute  gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Men  lay  the  sage  to  rest. 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place. 

With  costly  marble  dressed. 
In  the  great  minster  transept. 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  clioir  sings  and  the  organ  rings 

Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 


Tliis  was  the  bravest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword ; 
This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word ; 
And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced,  with  his  golden  pen, 
On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sa^ 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor  ? 

The  hill-side  for  his  pall, 
To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait. 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall ; 
And  the  dark  rock  pines,  like  tossing  plumes 

Over  his  bier  to  wave  ; 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land. 

To  lay  him  in  the  grave, — 

In  that  deep  grave,  without  a  name. 

Whence  his  uncoffined  clay 
Shall  break  again, — 0  wondrous  thought  1— 

Before  the  judgment  day  ; 
And  stand,  with  glory  wrapped  around. 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod. 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life, 

With  the  incarnate  Son  of  God. 

0  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land ! 

0  dark  Beth-peor's  hill! 
Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours. 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 
God  hath  his  mysteries  of  grace, — 

Waj's  that  we  cannot  toll ; 
lie  hides  them  deep,  like  the  secret  sleep 

Of  liim  lie  loved  so  well. 


PUTTING  UP  a  THE  STOVE. 


^^^T^.^ 


OR   THE    RIME    OF    THE    ECONOMICAL    irOUSEHOLDER. 


\\\V,  melancholy  days  have  come  that 

no  householder  lovoe. 
Days  of  the  taking  down  of  blindH 

and  putting  up  of  stoves  ; 
The  lengtlii  of  pipe  forgotten  lie  in 

the  Hhadnw  of  the  nhed, 
Dinged    out   of  symmetry   they  bo 

and  all  witli  rust  are  red  ; 


Tlio  hiiHl)and  gropes  amid  tlie  mass  thi*t  ho 

placed  them  anon, 
And  swears  to  find  an  elbow  joint  and  eke* 

leg  are  gone. 

So  fared    it    with    good    Mister  I'.iown,  wh«B 
liiHHpou.se  remarkc'l ;  "  Behold  I 


PUTTING  UP  0'  THE  STOVE. 


291 


Unless  you  wish  us  all  to  go  and  catch  our 

deaths  of  cold, 
Swift  be  yon  stove  and  pipes  from  out  their 

storing  place  conveyed, 
And  to  black-lead   and  set  them  up,  lo !  I 

will  lend  my  aid." 

This,  Mr.  Brown  ho  trembling  heard,  I  trow 

his  heart  was  sore, 
For  he  was   married  many  years  and  had 

been  there  before. 
And  timidly  he  said,  "  My  love,  perchance 

the  better  plan 
'Twere  to  hie  to  the  tinsmith's  shop  and  bid 

him  send  a  man?" 

His  spouse   replied   indignantly :    "So   you 

would  have  me  then 
To  waste   our  substance  upon   riotov;s  'tin- 
smith's journeyrjen  ? 
'  A  penny  saved  is  twopence  earned,'  rash 

prodigal  of  pelf, 
60  !  false  one,  go !  and   I  will  black  and  set 

it  up  myself." 
When  thus  she  spoke  the  husband  knew  that 

she  had  sealed  his  doom  : 
"  Fill  high  the  bowl  with   Samian  lead  and 

gimme  down  that  broom," 
He  cried ;    then  to  the    outhouse   marched. 

Apart  the  doors  he  hove 
And  closed  in  deadly  conflict  with  his  enemy, 

the  stove. 

Bound  1. — They  faced  each  other;  Brown, 

to  get  an  opening,  s^oarred 
Adroitly.     His  antagonist  was  cautious — on 

its  guard. 
Brown  led  off  with  his  left  to  where  a  length 

of  stove-pipe  stood 
And  nearly  cut  his  fingers   oS.      ( The  stove 

allowed  First  Blood.) 
Bound  2. — Brown    came    up    swearing,    in   I 

Grseco-Roman  style 
Closed  with  the  stove,  and  tugged  and  strove  j 

at  it  a  weary  while ; 
At  last  the  leg  he  held  gave  way  ;  flat  on  his 

back  fell  Brown, 
And  the  stove  fell  on  top  of  him  and  claimed 
the  First  Knock-down. 


*  *  *  The  fight  is  done  and  Brown  has  won; 

his  hands  are  gasped  and  sore, 
And  perspiration  and  black  lead  stream  from 

his  every  pore ; 
Sternly  triumphant,  as  he  gives  his  prisoner 

a  shove. 
He  cries,  "Where,  my  good  angel,  shall  Ipiit 

this  blessed  stove?" 
And  calmly  'Mj:s.  Brown  to  him  she  indicates 

the  spot, 
And  bids  him  keep  his  temper  and  remartf 

that  he  looks  hot. 
And  now  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  day ;  the 

Brown  holds  in  his  gripe 
And  strives  to  fit  a  six-inch  joint  into  a  five 

inch  pipe ; 
He  hammers,  dinges,  bends,  and  shakes,  while 

his  wife  scornfully 
Tells  him  how  she  would  manage  if  only  she 

were  he. 

At   last   the  joints  are  joined,  they  rear  a 

pyramid  m  air, 
A  tub  upon  the  table,  and  upon  the  tub  a 

chair. 
And  on  chair  and  supporters  are  the  stove 

pipe  and  the  Brown, 
Like  the  lion  and  the  unicorn,  a-fighting  foi 

the  crown ; 
WTiile  Mistress   Brown  she  cheerily  says  tt, 

him,  "  I  expec' 
'Twould  be  just  like  your  clumsiness  to  fali 

and  break  your  neck." 

Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said  before 
she  was  aware 

Of  what  might  be  called  "  a  miscellaneooft 
music  in  the  air," 

And  in  wild  crash  and  confiision  upon  the 
floor  rained  down 

Chairs,  tables,  tubs,  and  stovepipes,  anathe- 
mas and — Brown. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence — Brown  had 

fallen  on  the  cat ; 
She  was  too  thick  for  a  book-mark  but  too 

thin  for  a  mat, 
And  he  was  all  wounds  and  bruises,  from  hia 

head  to  his  foot. 
And  seven  breadths  of  Brussels  were  ruined 

with  the  soot 


292 


USEFUL  STUDIES. 


'  0  wedded  love,  how  beautiful,  how  sweet  a 

thing  thou  art  I" 
Up  from  her  chair  did  Mistress  Brown,  as  she 

saw  him  falling,  start, 
And  shrieked  aloud  as  a  sickening  fear  did 

her  inmost  heart-strings  gripe, 
"  Josiah   Winterbotham    Brown,   have    you 

gone  and  smashed  that  pipe?" 

Then  fiercely  starts  that  Mister   Brown,  as 

one  that  had  been  wode 
And  big  his  bosom  swelled  with  wrath,  and 

red  his  visage  glowed  ; 


Wild  rolled  his  eye  as  he  made  reply  (and  his 

voice  was  sharp  and  shrill), 
"  I  have  not,  madam,  but,   by — by — by  the 

nine  gods,  I  will !" 
He  swung  the  pipe  above  his  head,  he  dashed 

it  on  the  floor, 
And  that   s^tove-pipe,  as  a  stove-pipe,  it  did 

exist  no  more ; 
Then  he  strode  up  to  his  shrinking  wife,  and 

his  face  was  stern  and  wan, 
As  in  a  hoarse,  changed   voice   he   hissed: 

"  Send  for  that  tirismith's  man !  " 


USEFUL   ^TUDJE^. 


JEREMY    TAYLOR. 


^PEND  not  your  tirn<'  in  tliat  wliidi  profits  not  ;  for  your  lal>or  and 

M      your  lioaltli,  your  time  and  your  studios,  ai'o  very  valuable  ;  and 

it  is  a  thousan<l  pities  to  see  a  diligent  and  liopeful  per-^ou  sj)en(i 

k     himself  in   gathering  cockle-shells    and   littlo.  pchhles.  in    telling 

•'      sands  upon   the  shores,  and   making  garlands  of  useless  daisies. 

Study    that   which    is   profitable,  that    which    will    mak*;    you    useful   to 

;hurches  and   commonwealths,  that  which   will  mak(;  you  desirable  and 


/ 


BLONDINELLI. 

From  a  Famous  painting  by 
E.   Anders. 


•BIAH  CATHCART'S  PROPOSAL.  293 

wise.  Only  I  shall  add  this  to  you,  that  in  learning  there  are  a  variety  of 
things  as  well  as  in  religion :  there  is  mint  and  cummin,  and  there  are  the 
weighty  things  of  the  law ;  so  there  are  studies  more  and  less  useful,  and 
everything  that  is  useful  will  be  required  in  its  time  :  and  I  may  in  this 
also  use  the  words  of  our  blessed  Savioui',  "  These  things  ought  you  to  look 
after,  and  not  to  leave  the  other  unregarded."  But  your  great  care  is  to 
be  in  the  things  of  God  and  of  religion,  in  holiness  and  true  wisdom,  re- 
membering the  saying  of  Origen,  "  That  the  knowledge  that  arises  from 
goodness  is  something  that  is  more  certain  and  more  divine  than  all 
demonstration,"  than  all  other  learnings  of  the  world. 


'BIAH  CATHCART'S  PROPOSAL. 


HENRY  WARD  BEECHER. 


^PpHEY  were  walking  silently  and    gravely  home   one   Sunday  afteh- 

^i^     noon,  under   the  tall   elms  that   lined  the  street  for  half  a  mile. 

^^^     Neither  had  spoken.     There  had  been  some  little  parish  quarrel, 

"i        and  on  that  afternoon   the  text  was,  "  A    new  commandment  I 

I         write  unto  you,  that  ye  love  one  another."     But  after  the  sermon 

was  done  the  text  was  the  best  part  of  it.     Some  one  said  that 

Parson  Marsh's  sermons  were  like  the  meeting-house, — the  steeple  was 

the  only  thing  that  folks  could  see  after  they  got  home. 

They  walked  slowly,  without  a  word.  Once  or  twice  'Biah  essayed  to 
speak,  but  was  still  silent.  He  plucked  a  flower  from  between  the  pickets 
of  the  fence,  and  unconsciously  pulled  it  to  pieces,  as,  with  a  troubled  face, 
he  glanced  at  Rachel,  and  then,  as  fearing  she  would  catch  his  eye,  he 
looked  at  the  trees,  at  the  clouds,  at  the  grass,  at  everything,  and  saw  nothing 

nothing  but  Eachel.     The  most  solemn  hour  of  human  experience  is  not 

that  of  Death,  but  of  Life,— when  the  heart  is  born  again,  and  from  a  natural 
heart  becomes  a  heart  of  Love !  What  wonder  that  it  is  a  silent  hour  and 
perplexed ! 

Is  the  soul  confused  ?  AVhy  not,  when  the  divine  Spirit,  rolling  clear 
across  the  aerial  ocean,  breaks  upon  the  heart's  shore  with  all  the  mystery 
of  heaven  ?  Is  it  strange  that  uncertain  lights  dim  the  eye,  if  above  the 
head  of  him  that  truly  loves  hover  clouds  of  saintly  spirits  ?  Why  should 
not  the  tongue  stammer  and  refuse  its  accustomed  offices,  when  all  the  world 
—skies,  trees,  plains,  hills,  atmosphere,  and  the  solid  earth— springs  forth  in 
new  color,  with  strange  meanings,  and  seems  to  chant  for  the  soul  the 
20 


294 


'BIAH  CATHCART'S  PROPOSAL. 


glory  of  that  mystic  Law  with  which  God  has  bound  to  himself  his  infinite 
realm, — the  law  of  Love  ?  Then,  for  the  first  time,  when  one  so  loves  that 
love  is  sacrifice,  death  to  self,  resurrection,  and  glory,  is  man  brought 
into  harmony  with  the  whole  universe;  and,  Hke  hun  who  beheld  the 
seventh  heaven,  hears  things  unlawful  to  be  uttered. 

The  great  elm-trees  sighed  as  the  fitful  breeze  swept  their  tops.  The 
soft  shadows  flitted  back  and  forth  beneath  the  walker's  feet,  fell  upon 
them  in  light  and  dark,  ran  over  the  ground,  quivered  and  shook,  until 
sober  Cathcart  thought  that  his  heart  was  throwing  its  shifting  network 
of  hope  and  fear  along  the  ground  before  him.     How  strangely  his  voice 

sounded  to  him,  as,  at  length, 
-   ^^^.-gr^^j  s_  -~^i-  "^-  ; .  -  -  ^  all  his  emotions  could  only 

say,  "  Rachel, — how  did  you 
like  the  sermon  ?  " 

Quietly  she  answered, — 
"  I  liked  the  text." 
"  '  A  new  commandment 
I  write  unto  you,  that  ye  love 
one   another.'     Rachel,  will 
you  help  me  to  keep  it  ?  " 
At  first  she  looked  down 
and  lost  a  little  color ;  then,  raising  her  face,  she  turned  upon  him  her  large 
eyes,  with  a  look  both  clear  and  tender.    It  was  as  if  some  painful  restraint 
had  given  way,  and  her  eyes  blossomed  into  full  beauty. 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  They  walked  home  hand  in  hand. 
He  neither  smiled  nor  exulted.  He  saw  neither  the  trees,  nor  the  long  level 
rays  of  sunlight  that  were  slanting  across  the  fields.  His  soul  was  over- 
shadowed with  a  cloud,  as  if  God  wore  drawing  near.  He  had  never  felt 
80  solemn.     This  woman's  life  had  been  entrusted  to  him  ! 

Long  years, — the  whole  length  of  life, — the  eternal  years  beyond, 
seemed  in  an  indistinct  way  to  rise  up  in  his  imagination.  All  he  could 
say,  as  he  left  her  at  the  door,  was — "  Rachel,  this  is  forever — forever." 

She  again  said  nothing,  but  turned  to  him  with  a  clear  and  open  face, 
in  which  joy  and  trust  wrought  beauty.  It  seemed  to  him  iis  if  a  light  fell 
ufton  him  from  her  eyes.  There  was  a  look  that  descended  and  covered 
him  as  witli  an  atmosphoro;  and  all  the  way  home  ho  was  as  one  walking 
in  a  luminous  cloud.  Ho  had  never  felt  such  personal  dignity  as  now. 
He  that  wins  such  love  is  crowned,  and  may  call  himself  king.  He  did 
not  fof;l  the  earth  und<!r  his  feot.  As  ]u\  drew  near  his  lodgings,  the  sun 
»vont  down.     The   children  began  to  pour   forth,  no   longer   restrained. 


THE  ENGINEER'S  STORY. 


29.^ 


Abiali  turned  to  his  evening  chores.     No  animal  that  night  but.  had  rea 
son  to  bless  him.     The  children  found  him  unusually  good  and  tender 
And  Aunt  Keziah  said  to  her  sister, — "  Abiah's  been  goin'  to  meetin'  very 
regular  for  some  weeks,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder,  by  the  way  he  looks,  if  hw 
had  got  a  hope  :  I  trust  he  ain't  deceivin'  himself." 

He  had  a  hope,  and  he  was  not  deceived ;  for  in  a  few  months,  at  the 
close  of  the  service  one  Sunday  morning,  the  minister  read  from  the  pul- 
pit :  "  Marriage  is  intended  between  Abiah  Cathcart  and  Ilachel  Liscomb 
both  of  this  town,  and  this  is  the  first  publishing  of  the  banns." 


THE  ENGINEER'S  STOR  Y. 


,  children,  my  trips  are  over, 

The  Engineer  needs  rest ; 

My  hands  is  shaky  ;  I'm  feeling 

A  tugging  pain  i'  my  breast; 
But  here,  as  the  twilight  gathers, 

I'll  tell  you  a  tale  of  the  road. 
That'll  ring  in  my  head  forever. 

Till  it  rests  beneath  the  sod. 


We  were  lumbering  along  in  the  twilight, 

The  night  was  dropping  her  shade. 
And  the  "  Gladiator  "  labored — 

Climbing  the  top  of  the  grade  ; 
The  train  was  heavily  laden. 

So  I  let  my  engine  rest, 
Climbing  the  grading  slowly, 

Till  we  reached  the  upland's  crest. 

I  held  my  watch  to  the  lamplight — 

Ten  minutes  behind  the  time  ! 
Lost  in  the  slackened  motion 

Of  the  up  grade's  heavy  climb  ; 
But  I  knew  the  miles  of  the  prairie 

That  stretched  a  level  track, 
So  I  touched  the  gauge  of  the  boiler, 

And  pulled  the  lever  back. 

Over  the  rails  a-gleaming. 

Thirty  an  hour,  or  so, 
The  engine  leaped  like  a  demon. 

Breathing  a  fiery  glow ; 
But  to  me — ahold  of  the  lever — 

It  seemed  a  child  alway. 
Trustful  and  always  ready 

My  lightest  touch  to  obey. 


I  was  proud  you  know,  "f  my  engina, 

Holding  it  steady  that  night. 
And  my  eye  on  the  track  before  us, 

Ablaze  with  the  Drummond  light. 
We  neared  a  well-known  cabin, 

Where  a  child  of  three  c  four. 
As  the  up  train  passed,  oft  called  me, 

A  playing  around  the  door. 

My  hand  was  firm  on  the  throttle 

As  we  swept  around  the  curve. 
When  something  afar  in  the  shadow, 

Struck  fire  through  every  nerve. 
I  sounded  the  brakes,  and  crashing 

The  reverse  lever  down  in  dismay. 
Groaning  to  Heaven — eighty  paces 

Ahead  was  a  child  at  its  play ! 

One  instant — one  awful  and  only. 

The  world  flew  around  in  my  brain, 
And  I  smote  my  hand  hard  on  my  foreheac 

To  keep  back  the  terrible  pain  ; 
The  train  I  thought  flying  forever, 

With  mad  irresistible  roll, 
While  the  cries  of  the  dying,  the  night-wina 

Swept  into  my  shuddering  soul. 

Then  I  stood  on  the  front  of  the  engine, — 

How  I  got  there  I  never  could  tell, — 
My  feet  planted  down  on  the  crossbar. 

Where  the  cow-catcher  slopes  to  the  rail. 
One  hand  firmly  locked  on  the  coupler, 

And  one  held  out  in  the  night. 
While   my    eye  gauged  the    distance,    aiv 
measured 

The  speed  of  our  slackening  flight. 


296 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 


My  mind,  thank  the  Lord  !  it  was  steady  ; 

I  saw  the  curls  of  her  hair, 
And  the  face  that,  turning  in  wonder. 

Was  lit  by  the  deadly  glare. 
I  know  little  more — bat  I  heard  it — 

The  groan  of  the  anguished  wheels, 
And  remember  thinking — the  engine 

In  agony  trembles  and  reels. 

One  rod !  To  the  day  of  my  dying 

I  shall  think  the  old  engine  reared  back, 
And  as  it  recoiled,  with  a  shudder 

I  swept  my  hand  over  the  track  ; 
Then  darkness  fell  over  my  eyelids, 

But  I  heard  the  surge  of  the  train, 
And  the  poor  old  engine  creaking, 

As  racked  by  a  deadly  pain. 


They  found  us  they  said,  on  the  gravel 

My  fingers  enmeshed  in  her  hair, 
And  she  on  my  bosom  a-climbing, 

To  nestle  securely  there. 
We  are  not  much  given  to  crying — 

We  men  that  run  on  the  road — 
But  that  night,  they  said,  there  were  faces, 

With  tears  on  them,  lifted  to  God. 

For  years  in  the  eve  and  the  morning 

As  I  neared  the  cabin  again, 
My  hand  on  the  lever  pressed  downward 

And  slackened  the  speed  of  the  tram. 
When  my  engine  had  blown  her  a  greeting. 

She  always  would  come  to  the  door ; 
And  her  look  with  a  fullness  of  heaven 

Blessed  me  evermore. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 


LORD  BYRON. 


^^r^HE  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf 
r^A^  on  the  fold, 

^t^'X    ■^°'^  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in 
4  '•  purple  and  gold  ; 

4  And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was 

n|  like  stars  on  the  sea 

J      When   the  blue  wave   rolls  nightly  on 
deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer 

is  green. 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were 

Ber-n  ; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn 

hath  blown. 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and 

strown. 

For   the   Angel   of    Death   8[)read   his  wings 

on  the  blast. 
And  breathod   in   the  fare  of  the   foe  as  ho 

passed  ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  dea<lly 

and  chill, 


And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for- 
ever grew  still. 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostrils  all 

wide. 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  ol 

his  pride  • 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on 

the  turf. 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beaten  surl. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorteil  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on 

his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the   bannerfc 

alone; 
The  lancen  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  thoil 

wail, 
An<l  the  idols  are  broke   in   the  ti'inplca  ol 

Baal ; 
And  tbo  might  of  the  Gr'ntilo,  iinsmoto  by 

tlif>  sword, 
Hatli  mcltfd  like  snow  in  tlie  glance  of  tbo 

Lord  I 


DER  DRUMMER. 


297 


DER  DRUMMER. 


CHAS.  F.  ADAMS. 


no  puts  oup  at  der  pest  hotel, 
■  nd  flakes  his  oysders  on  der  schell, 
'1  mit  der  frauleins  cuts  a  schwell  ? 
Der  drummer. 


Who  vas  it  gomes  indo  mine  schtore, 
Drows  down  his  pundles  on  der  vloor, 
Und  nefer  schtops  to  shut  der  door  ? 
Der  drummer. 


Who  dakes  me  py  der  haadt,  und  say, 
"  Hans  Pfeiffer,  how  you  vas  to-day  ?" 
Dnd  goes  vor  peeseness  righdt  avay  ? 
Der  drummer. 


Who  shpreads  his  zamples  in  a  trice, 
Und  dells  me,  "  Look,  und  see  how  nice?' 
Und  says  I  gets  "der  bottom  price?" 
Der  drummer. 


Who  dells  how  sheap  der  goods  vas  bought, 
Mooch  less  as  vot  I  gould  imbort, 
But  lets  dem  go  as  he  vas  "  short?" 
Der  drummer. 


Who  says  der  tings  vas  eggstra  vine, — 
"  Vrom  Sharmany,  ubon  der  Rhine," — 
Und  sheats  me  den  dimes  oudt  08"  nine? 
Der  drummer. 


298 


VOICES  OF  THE  DEAD. 


\V  ho  varrants  all  der  goots  to  suit 
L)er  gustomers  ubon  his  route, 
l.'nd  ven  dey  gomes  dey  vas  no  goot? 
Der  drummer. 

Who  gomes  aroundt  ven  I  been  oudt, 
Drinks  cup  mine  bier,  and  eats  mine  kraut, 


Und  kiss  Katrina  in  der  mout'  ? 
Der  drummer. 

Who,  ven  he  gomes  again  dis  vay, 
Vill  hear  vot  Ffeiffer  has  to  say, 
Und  mit  a  plack  ej-e  goes  avay  ? 
Der  drummer. 


VOICES  OF  THE  DEAD. 


,  <^f^ , 


JOHN  GUMMING. 


' R  die,  but  leave  an  influence  behind  u.s  that  survives.  The  echoce 
of  our  words  are  evermore  repeated,  and  reflected  along  the  ages. 
It  is  what  man  was  that  lives  and  acts  after  him.  What  he  said 
.sounds  along  the  years  like  voices  amid  Uk^  mountain  gorges  ;  and 
what  ho  did  is  repeated  after  him  in  ovor-multiplying  and  novcr- 
'  ceiifing  reverberations.  Every  man  has  left  bdiind  him  iiiHucnces  for 
i^ood  or  for  evil  that  will  never  exhaust  themselves.  The  sphere  in  which  ho 
ai  ts  may  be  small,  or  it  may  be  gn^at.  It  may  be  his  liresidc,  or  it  may  be  a 
kmgdom  ;  a  village,  or  a  great  nation  ;  it  may  be  a  parish,  or  broad  Europe,- 
but  act  he  does,  cea-selcssly  and  forever.  His  friends,  his  family,  his  succes- 
sors in  office,  his  relatives,  are  all  receptive  of  an  influence,  a  moral  influ- 
ence which  ho  has  transmitted  and  btyjueathed  to  mankind ;  either  a  J)Ichs- 
ing  which  will  repeat  itself  in  show(!rs  of  benedictions,  oi-  a  curHe  which 
will  multiply  itself  in  ever-accumulating  evil. 

p]very    man    is   a   missionary,  now    and    foi-cver,  for  good   or   lor  evil, 
w.i('the,r  he  intends  and  rlcsign.s  it,  or  not.      lie  may  bo  a  blot,  radiating  his 


VOICES  OF  THE  DEAD.  £99 


dark  influence  outward  to  the  very  circumference  of  society,  or  he  may  be 
a  blessing,  spreading  benedictions  over  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
world ;  but  a  blank  he  cannot  be.  The  seed  sown  in  life  springs  up  in 
harvests  of  blessings,  or  harvests  of  sorrow.  Whether  our  influence  be 
great  or  small,  whether  it  be  for  good  or  evil,  it  lasts,  it  lives  somewhere, 
within  some  limit,  and  is  operative  wherever  it  is.  The  grave  buries  the 
dead  dust,  but  the  character  walks  the  world,  and  distributes  itself,  as  a 
benediction  or  a  curse,  among  the  families  of  mankind. 

The  sun  sets  beyond  the  western  hills,  but  the  trail  of  light  he  leaves 
behind  him  guides  the  pilgrim  to  his  distant  home.  The  tree  falls 
in  the  forest ;  but  in  the  lapse  of  ages  it  is  turned  into  coal,  and  our 
fires  burn  now  the  brighter  because  it  grew  and  fell.  The  coral  insect 
dies,  but  the  reef  it  raised  breaks  the  surge  on  the  shores  of  great  conti- 
nents, or  has  formed  an  isle  in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean,  to  wave  with  har- 
vests for  the  good  of  man.  We  live  and  we  die;  but  the  good  or  evil  that 
•we  do  lives  after  us,  and  is  not  "  buried  with  our  bones." 

The  babe  that  perished  o)i  the  bosom  of  its  mother,  like  a  flower  that 
bowed  its  head  and  drooped  amid  the  death-frosts  of  time — that  babe,  not 
only  in  its  image,  but  in  its  influence,  still  lives  and  speaks  in  the  cham 
bers  of  the  mother's  heart. 

The  friend  with  whom  we  took  sweet  counsel  is  removed  visibly  from 
the  outward  eye ;  but  the  lessons  that  he  taught,  the  grand  sentiments 
that  he  uttered,  the  holy  deeds  of  generosity  by  which  he  was  character- 
ized, the  moral  lineaments  and  likeness  of  the  man,  still  survive  and  ap- 
pear in  the  silence  of  eventide,  and  on  the  tablets  of  memory,  and  in  the 
light  of  morn  and  noon  and  dewy  eve ;  and,  being  dead,  he  yet  speaks  elo- 
f^uently,  and  in  the  midst  of  us. 

Mahomet  still  lives  in  his  practical  and  disastrous  influence  in  the  East. 
Napoleon  still  is  France,  and  France  is  almost  Napoleon.  Martin  Luther's 
dead  dust  sleeps  at  Wittenberg,  but  Martin  Luther's  accents  still  ring 
through  the  churches  of  Christoiulom.  Shakspeare,  Byron,  and  Milton, 
all  live  in  their  influence  for  good  or  evil.  The  ap)Ostle  from  his  chair,  the 
minister  from  his  pulpit,  the  martyr  from  his  flame-shroud,  the  statesman 
from  his  cabinet,  the  soldier  in  the  field,  the  sailor  on  the  deck,  who  all 
have  passed  away  to  their  graves,  still  live  in  the  practical  deeds  that  they 
did,  in  the  lives  they  lived,  and  in  the  powerful  lessons  that  they  left  be- 
hind them. 

"  None  of  us  liveth  to  himself;  " — others  are  affected  by  that  life  ; — "  or 
dieth  to  himself ;"- -others  are  interested  in  that  death.  Our  queen's 
crown  naay  moulder,  but  she  who  wore  it  will  act  upon  the  ages  which  are 


300  THE  BAGGAGE-FIEND. 


yet  to  come.  The  noble's  coronet  may  be  reft  in  pieces,  but  the  wearer  of 
it  is  now  doing  what  will  be  reflected  by  thousands  who  wUl  be  made  and 
moulded  by  him.  Dignity,  and  rank,  and  riches,  are  all  corruptible  and 
worthless ;  but  moral  character  has  an  immortality  that  no  sword-point  can 
destroy ;  that  ever  walks  the  world  and  leaves  lasting  influences  behind. 

What  we  do  is  transacted  on  a  stage  of  which  all  in  the  universe  are 
spectators.  What  we  say  is  transmitted  in  echoes  that  wUl  never  cease. 
What  we  are  is  influencing  and  acting  on  the  rest  of  mankind.  Neutral 
we  cannot  be.  Living  we  act,  and  dead  we  speak ;  and  the  whole  universe 
is  the  mighty  company  forever  looking,  forever  listening;  and  all  nature 
the  tablets  forever  recording  the  words,  the  deeds,  the  thoughts,  the  pas- 
sions of  mankind. 

Monuments,  and  columns,  and  statues,  erected  to  heroes,  poets,  orators, 
statesmen,  are  all  influences  that  extend  into  the  future  ao^es.  "  The  blind 
old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle  "  still  speaks.  The  Mantuan  bard  still  sings  in 
every  school.  Shakspeare,  the  bard  of  Avon,  is  still  translated  into  every 
tongue.  The  philosophy  of  the  Stagyrite  is  still  felt  in  every  academy. 
Whether  these  influences  are  beneficent  or  the  reverse,  they  are  influences 
fraught  with  power.  How  blest  must  be  the  recollection  of  those  who, 
like  the  setting  sun,  have  left  a  tarail  of  light  behind  them  by  which  others 
may  see  the  way  to  that  rest  which  remaincth  for  the  people  of  God ! 

It  is  only  the  pure  fountain  that  brings  forth  pure  water.  The  good 
tree  only  will  produce  the  good  fruit.  If  the  centre  from  which  all  pro- 
ceeds is  pure  and  holy,  the  radii  of  influence  from  it  will  be  pure  and  holy 
also.  Go  forth,  then,  into  the  sphere  that  you  occupy,  the  employments, 
the  trades,  the  professions  of  social  life ;  go  forth  into  the  high  places,  or 
into  the  lowly  places  of  the  land;  mix  with  the  roaring  cataracts  of  social 
convulsions,  or  mingle  amid  the  eddies  and  streamlets  of  quiet  and  domestic 
life ;  whatever  sphere  you  fill,  carrying  into  it  a  holy  heart,  you  will  radi- 
ate around  you  life  and  power,  and  leave  behind  you  holy  and  beneficial 
influences. 


THE  BAGGAGE-FIEND. 


WAS  a  ferocious  baggage-man,  with 
AtlanU>an  back, 
And  l)irf.pa  upon  each  arm  jiilcl  in 

a  formiflablo  Btaok, 
That  filie'l  his  flroa'l  vocation  hosido 


a  railroad  track.  eggshell. 


Wildly    ho  tossed   the   baggage    round    tha 

{ilatform  there,  pollmoll, 
And   crushod  to   naught  llio    frail   bandbox 

where'er  it  shapfdess  fnll, 
Or  Ht/)vo  tlie  "Saratoga"  like  the  fliinaieet 


NIGHT. 


301 


On  ironclads,  especially,  he  fell  full  ruthlessly, 
And  eke  the  trunk  derisively  called  "Cottage 

by  the  Sea ;" 
And   pulled   and    hauled   and    rammed  and 

jammed  the  same  vindictively. 

Until  a  yearning  breach  appeared,  or  frac- 
tures two  or  three. 

Or  straps  were  burst,  or  lids  fell  ofi,  or  some 
catastrophe 

Crowned  his  Satanic  zeal  or  moved  his  dia- 
bolic glee. 

The  passengers  surveyed  the  wreck  with  di- 
verse discontent, 

And  some  vituperated  him,  and  some  made 
loud  lament. 

But  wrath  or  lamentation  on  him  were  vainly 
spent. 

To  him  there  came  a  shambling  man,  sad- 
eyed  and  meek  and  thin. 

Bearing  an  humble  carpet-bag,  with  scanty 
stuff  therein. 

And  unto  that  fierce  baggage-man  he  spake, 
with  quivering  chin  ; 


"  Behold  this  scanty  carpi.l-bag  !    I  started  a 

month  ago, 
With  a  dozen  Saratoga  trunks,  hat-box,  and 

portmanteau. 
But    baggage-men    along    the    route    have 

brought  me  down  so  low. 

"  Be  careful  with  this  carpet-bag,  kind  sir," 

said  he  to  him. 
The  baggage-man  received  it  with  a  smil« 

extremely  grim. 
And  softly  whispered  "  Mother,  may  I   go 

out  to  swim  ?" 

Then  fiercely  jumped  upon  that  bag  in  wild, 
sardonic  spleen, 

And  into  countless  fragments  flew — to  hi>- 
profound  chagrin — 

For  that  lank  bag  contained  a  pint  of  nitro- 
glycerine. 

The  stranger  heaved  a  gentle  sigh,  and 
stroked  his  quivering  chin, 

And  then  he  winked  with  one  sad  eye,  and 
said,  with  smile  serene, 

"  The  stuff  to  check  a  baggage-man  is  nitro- 
glycerine!" 


NIGHT. 


JAMES   MONTGOMERY. 


I  HIT  is  the  time  for  rest; 

How  sweet,  when  labors  close. 
To  gather  '-ound  an  aching  breast 

The  curtain  of  repose, 
Stretch  the  tired  limbs,  and   lay  the 

head 
Down  on  our  own  delightful  bed ! 


Night  is  the  time  for  dreams : 

The  gay  romance  of  life, 
When  truth  that  is,  and  truth  that  seems, 

Mix  in  fantastic  strife  ; 
Ah  !  visions,  less  beguiling  far 
Than  waking  dreams  by  daylight  are ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  toil : 
To  plough  the  classic  field, 


Intent  to  find  the  buried  spoil 

Its  wealthy  furrows  yield  ; 
Till  all  is  ours  that  sages  taught, 
That  poets  sang,  and  heroes  wrought. 

Night  is  the  time  to  weep  : 

To  wet  with  unseen  tears 
Those  graves  of  Memory,  where  sleep 

The  joys  of  other  j'ears ; 
Hopes,  that  were  Angels  at  their  birth 
But  died  when  young,  like  things  of  t-artl 

Night  is  the  time  to  watch : 

O'er  ocean's  dark  expanse. 
To  hail  the  Pleiades,  or  catch 

The  full  moon's  earliest  glance, 
That  brings  into  the  homesick  mina 
All  wo  have  loved  and  left  behind. 


302 


NOBODY'S  CHILD. 


Night  is  the  time  for  care  : 

— • — ^     II  >a. 

Night  is  the  time  to  pray : 

Brooding  on  hours  misspent, 

Our  Saviour  oft  withdrew 

To  see  the  spectre  of  Despair 

To  desert  mountains  far  away ; 

Come  to  our  lonely  teut; 

So  will  his  followers  do, 

Like  Brutus,  midst  his  slumbering 

host, 

Steal  from  the  throng  to  haunts  untrod. 

Summoned  to  die  bj-  Caesar's  ghost. 

And  commune  there  alone  with  Grod. 

Night  is  the  time  to  think : 

Night  is  the  time  for  Death : 

When,  from  the  eye,  the  soul 

When  all  around  is  peace, 

Takes  flight ;  and  on  the  utmost  brink 

Calmly  to  yield  the  weary  breath. 

Of  yonder  starry  pole 

From  sin  and  suffering  cease. 

Discern  beyond  the  abyss  of  night 

Think  of  heaven's  bliss,  and  give  the  sign 

The  dawn  of  uncreated  light. 

To  parting  friends ; — such  death  be  mine. 

NOBODY'S  CHILD. 


PIIILA   H.    CASE. 


LONE,  in  the  dreary,  pitiless  street, 
With  my  torn  old  dross   and    bare 

'M^'^f         ^^^^  ^''^*^' 

0/'*  All  day  I  wandered  to  and  fro. 

Hungry  and  shivering  and  nowhere 

to  go; 

The  night's  coming  on   in   darknoss 

and  dread. 

And  the  diill  sleet  beatinc;  upon  my   bare 

liead  ; 

Oh  !  why  docs  tbe   wind   blow   upon  mo  so 

wild? 

Is  it  becauBe  I'm  nobody's  child? 

JuHt  over  the  way  there's  a  flood  of  liglit, 
And    warmth  and   b<auty,   and   all    things 

bright; 
Bf'dutiful  fhildrrn,  in  rnb'H  ho  fair, 
\re  caroling  songs  in  rapture  there. 


1  wonder  if  they,  in  their  blissful  glee, 
Would  pity  a  poor  little  beggar  like  me, 
Wandering  alone  in  the  merciless  street. 
Naked  and  sliiv^rins^  ami  notliing  to  eat. 

Oil!  what  shall  1  do  when  the   night  cornea 

down 
In  its  terrible  blackness  all  over  the  town  ? 
Shall  I  lay  mo  down  'neath  tho  angry  sky, 
On  tho  cold  iiard  pavements  alone  to  die  ? 
When   tho  beautiful   cliildron    (licir    j.niyora 

have  said, 
And   mammas  have   tucked  them  up  snugly 

in  bed. 
No  dear  mother  over  upon  me  smiled — 
Why  is  it,  I  wonder,  that  I'm  nobody's  childl 

,  N'l  fallifT,  no  molher,  no  flialcr,  not  one 


THE  GOLDEN  CITY. 


303 


In  all  the  world  loveR  me  ;  e'en  the  little  dogs 
run 

When  I  wander  too  near  them ;  'tis  won- 
drous to  see, 

Bow  everything  shiink.s  from  a  beggar  like 
me' 

Perhaps  'tis  a  dream ;  but,  sometimes,  when 
Hie 

Gazing  far  up  in  the  dark  blue  sky, 

Watching  for  hours  some  large  bright  star, 

I  fancy  the  beautiful  gates  are  ajar. 

And  a  host  of  white-robed,  nameless  things. 
Come  fluttering  o'er  me  in  gilded  wings; 
A  hand  that  is  strangely  soft  and  fair 


Caresses  gently  my  tangled  hair, 

And  a  voice  like  the  carol  of  some  wild  bird 

The  sweetest  voice  that  was  ever  heard — 

Calls  me  many  a  dear  pet  name, 

Till  my  heart  and  spirits  are  all  aflame  ; 

And  tells  me  of  such  unbounded  love, 
And  bids  me  come  up  to  their  home  above. 
And  then,  with  such  pitiful,  sad  surprise, 
They  look  at  me  with  their  sweet  blue  eyes, 
And  it  seems  to  me  out  of  the  dreary  niglit. 
I  am  going  up  to  the  world  of  light, 
And  away  from  the  hunger  and  storms  so 

wild — 
I  am  sure  I  shall  then  be  somebody's  child. 


THE  GOLDEN  CITY. 


JOHN    BUNYAN. 


^KfOW  just  as  the  gates  were  opened  to  let  in  the  men,  I  looked  in  after 
S^i^  them,  and  behold  the  city  shone  like  the  sun  ;  the  streets,  also 
fff;''  *  were  paved  with  gold,  and  in  them  walked  many  men  with  crowns 
^  on  their  heads,  palms  in  their  hands,  and  golden  harps,  to  sing 
1    praises  withal. 

J  There  were  also  of  them  that  had  wings,  and  they  answered  one 

another  without  intermission,  saying,  "  Holy,  holy,  holy,  is  the  Lord."  And 
after  that  they  shut  up  the  gates  ;  which  when  I  had  seen,  I  wished  myself 
among  them. 

Now,  while  I  was  gazing  upon  all  these  things,  I  turned  my  head  to 
look  back,  and  saw  Ignorance  coming  up  to  the  river  side ;  but  he  soon 
got  over,  and  that  without  half  the  difl5culty  which  the  other  two  meB 
met  with.  For  it  happened  that  there  was  then  in  that  place  one  Vain- 
Hope,  a  ferryman,  that  with  his  boat  helped  him  over ;  so  he,  as  the  other, 
I  saw,  did  ascend  the  hill,  to  come  up  to  the  gate,  only  he  came  alone ; 
neither  did  any  man  meet  him  with  the  least  encouragement.  When  he  was 
coming  up  to  the  gate,  he  looked  up  to  the  writing  that  was  above,  and  then 
began  to  knock,  supposing  that  entrance  should  have  been  quickly  admin- 
istered to  him :  but  he  was  asked  by  the  men  that  looked  over  the  top  ol 
the  gate,  "  Whence  come  you,  and  what  would  you  have  ?"  .  .  He  answered, 
"  I  have  eat  and  drank  in  the  presence  of  the  King,  and  he  has  taught  io 


304 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FORGE. 


our  streets."  Then  they  asked  for  his  certificate,  that  they  might  go  in 
and  show  it  to  the  King ;  so  he  fumbled  in  his  bosom  for  one,  and  found 
none.  Then  said  they,  "  You  have  none  !"  but  the  man  answered  never  a 
word.  So  they  told  the  King,  but  he  w(»uld  not  come  down  to  see  him, 
but  commanded  the  two  shining  ones  that  conducted  Christian  and  Hope 
ful  to  the  city  to  go  out  and  take  Ignorance,  and  bind  him  hand  and  foot 
and  have  him  away.  Then  they  took  him  up  and  carried  him  through  the 
air  to  tho  door  that  I  saw  on  the  side  of  the  hill,  and  put  him  in  there. 
Then  I  saw  that  there  was  a  way  to  hell,  even  from  the  gates  of  heaven, 
as  well  as  from  the  City  of  Destruction.    "  So  I  awoke.     It  was  a  dream.' 


I^lM^iJi^lfc^^uiijii.: 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  EOMGE. 


w^^LANO,  clant:»!  the  ina.ssive  anvils  ring; 
^pK  Clang,    clang!    a    hundred    hammers 

^'i'P    Like  the  thtind(!r-rattle  of  a  tropic  sky, 
t      The  minlity  blows  still  niuUiply, — 
¥      Clang,  clang! 
I      Say,  brothers  of  the  dusky  brow. 

What  are  your  strong  arms  forging  now? 

Clang,  clang  ! — we  forge  the  coulter  now, — 

The  couIUt  oI  the  kindly  plough. 

Sweet  Mary  mother,  bless  our  toil ! 

May  itfl  broa/j  furrow  still  unbind 

To  genial  rains,  to  sun  and  wind. 

The  moat  benignant  soil ! 


Clang,  clang! — our  coulter's  course  shall  bo 
On  many  a  sweet  and  sheltered  lea. 
By  many  a  streamlet's  silver  tide ; 
Amidst  the  song  of  morning  birds. 
Amidst  the  low  of  .sauntering  herds. 
Amidst  soft  breezes,  which  do  stray 
Through  woodbine  hedges  ami  sweet  May, 
Along  the  green  hill's  side.  \ 

When  reg.al  Autumn's  botinlenuH  )iand 
Witli  wide-spread  glory  clothes  the  land,— 
When  to  the  valleys,  from  the  brnw 
Of  each  resplendent  slope,  is  rolled 
A  ruddy  sea  of  livin-;  gold  -  - 
We  bless,  we  bbss  the  plough. 


DAVID'S  LAMENT  FOR  ABSALOM. 


305 


Clang,  clang ! — again,  my  mates,  what  grows 
Beneath  the  hammer's  potent  blows? 
Clink,  clank ! — we  forge  the  giant  chain, 
Which  bears  the  gallant  vessel's  strain 
Midst  stormy  winds  and  adverse  tides  ; 
Secured  by  this,  the  good  ship  braves 
The  rooky  roadstead,  and  the  waves 
Which  thunder  on  her  sides. 

Anxioui  no  more,  the  merchant  sees 
The  mist  drive  dark  before  the  breeze, 
The  atorm-cloud  on  the  hill ; 
Calmly  he  rests, — though  far  away. 
In  boisterous  climes,  his  vessel  lay, — 
Reliant  on  our  skill. 

Say  on  what  sands  these  links  shall  sleep, 
Fathoms  beneath  the  solemn  deep  ? 
By  Afric's  pestilential  shore  ; 
By  many  an  iceberg,  lone  and  hoar ; 
By  many  a  balmy  western  isle. 
Basking  in  spring's  perpetual  smile ; 
By  stormy  Labrador. 

Say,  shall  they  feel  the  vessel  reel, 

When  to  the  battery's  deadly  peal 

The  crashing  broadside  makes  reply ; 

Or  else,  as  at  the  glorious  Nile, 

Hold  grappling  ships,  that  strive  the  while 

For  death  or  victory  ? 


Hurrah  !  —  cling,  clang  1 — once   more,   what 
glows. 

Dark  brothers  of  the  forge,  beneath 
The  iron  tempest  of  your  blows, 

The  furnace's  red  breath  ? 

Clang,  clang ! — a  burning  torrent,  clear 
And  brilliant  of  bright  sparks,  is  poured 

Around,  and  up  in  the  du.sky  air, 
As  our  hammers  forge  the  sword. 

The  sword  ! — a  name  of  dread !  yet  when 
Upon  the  freeman's  thigh  'tis  bound, — 
While  for  his  altar  and  his  hearth. 
While  for  the  land  that  gave  him  birth. 
The  war-drums  roll,  the  trumpets  sound, — 
How  sacred  is  it  then ! 

Whenever  for  the  truth  and  right 
It  flashes  in  the  van  of  fight,— 
Whether  in  some  wild  mountain  pass, 
As  that  where  fell  Leonidas ; 
Or  on  some  sterile  plain  and  stern, 
A  Marston  or  a  Bannockburn  ; 
Or  amidst  crags  and  bursting  rills. 
The  Switzer's  Alps,  gray  Tyrol's  hills ; 
Or  as,  when  sunk  the  Armada's  pride, 
It  gleams  above  the  stormy  tide, — 
Still,  still,  whene'er  the  battle  word 
Is  liberty,  when  men  do  stand 
For  justice  and  their  native  land, — 
Then  Heaven  bless  the  sword ! 


DA  VinS  LAMENT  FOR  ABSALOM. 


N.    P.    WILLIS. 


PlFfy^yiE  waters  slept.     Night's  silvery  veil 

pj^3^        hung  low 

%|y;W   On  Jordan's  bosom,  and  the  eddies 

i/l»  curled 

■»•  Their  glassy  rings  beneath  it,   like 

i  the  still, 

J  Unbroken  beating  of  the  sleeper's 

pulse. 
The  reeds  bent  down  the  stream :  the  willow 

leaves 
With  a  soft  cheek  upon  the  lulling  tide. 
Forgot  the  lifting  winds  ;  and  the  long  stems 


Whose  flowers  the  water,  like  a  gentle  nurs« 
Bears  on  its  bosom,  quietly  gave  way. 
And  leaned,  in  graceful  attitude,  to  rest. 
How  strikingly  the  course  of  nature  tells 
By  its  light  heed  of  human  suffering, 
That  it  was  fashioned  for  a  happier  world 

King  David's  limbs  were  weary.     He  nb*. 
fled 
From  far  Jerusalem  :  and  now  he  stood 
With  his  faint  people,  for  a  little  space, 
Upon  the  shore  of  Jordan,     The  light  wind 


306 


DAVIDS  LAMENT  FOR  ABSALOM. 


Of  morn  was  stirring,  and  he  bared  his  brow, 
To  its  refreshing  breath  ;  for  he  had  worn 
The  mourner's  covering,  and  had  not  felt 
That  he  could  see  his  people  until  now. 
They  gathered  round  him  on  the  fresh  green 

bank 
And  spoke  their  kindly  words :  and  as  the 

sun 
Rose  up  in  heaven,  he  knelt  among   them  : 

there,  | 

And  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands  to  pra)^  ' 
Oh  !  when   the   heart   is   full, — when   bitter 

thoughts  1 

Come  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance,  i 

And  the  poor  common  words  of  courte.sj''. 
Are  such  a  very  mockery — how  much  | 

The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer !  ! 
He  prayed  for  Israel :  and  his  voice  went  up 
Strongly  and  fervently.    He  prayed  for  those,  ! 
Whose   love   had   been   his  shield :  and  his  j 

deep  tones  j 

Grew  tremulous.     But,  oh  !  for  Absalom, —     i 
For  his  estranged,  misguided  Absalom, — 
The  proud  bright  being  who  had  burst  away 
In  all  his  princely  beauty,  to  defy 
The  heart  that  cherished  him — for  him  he 

poured 
In  agony  that  would  not  be  controlled 
Strong  supplication,  and  forgave  him  there. 
Before  his  God,  for  his  deep  sinfulness. 


The  j)all  was  settled.     He  who  slept  beneath 
Was  straightened  for  the  grave  :  and  as  the 

folds 
Sank  to  the  still  [»roportions,  they  betrayed 
The  matchless  symmetry  of  Absalom. 
His  hair  was  yet  un.'^horn,  and  silken  curls 

Were    floating    round    tlif    ta-sel-;    as    tlify 

swayed 
To  the  admitted  air,  as  glo.^sy  now 
Ah  when,  in  hours  of  gentle  dalliance,  bathing 
The  snowy  fingers  of  Judea's  girls. 
His  helm  wa-s  at  his  feet:  his  bannr-r  HoiliKJ 
With  trailing  tbrough  .Terusalem,  was  laid, 
Reversed,  beside  him  ;  and  the  jeweled  hilt 
Whoso  diamonds  lit  the  passage  of  bis  blade, 
Rested  like  mockery  on  his  covered  brow. 
Tbe  soidiors  of  tlie  king  trod  to  and  Iro, 


Clad  in  the  garb  of  battle ;  and  their  cliief, 
The  mighty  Joab,  stood  beside  the  bier, 
And  gazed  upon  the  dark  pall  steadfastlv, 
As  if  he  feared  the  slumberer  might  stir. 
A  slow  step  startled  him.     He  grasped   his 

blade 
As  if  a  trumpet  rang  :  but  the  bent  form 
Of  David  entered,  and  he  gave  command 
In  a  low  tone  to  his  few  followers. 
And  left  him  with  his  dead.     The  King  stood 

still 
Till  the  last  echo  died  :  then,  throwing  off 
The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 
The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child. 
He  bowed  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 
In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  woe  : 

"Alas!  mj'  noble  boy  I   that  thou  should'st 
die, — 
Thou  who  wert  made  so  beautifully  fair  ! 
That  death  should  settle  in  thy  glorious  e5'-e. 
And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering 
hair — 
How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb. 
My  proud  boy,  Absalom  ! 

"  Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son !  and  I  am  chill 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee — 
How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill. 
Like  a  rich  harp  string,  j'earning  to  caress 
thee — 
And  hear  thy  sweet  '  My  juther,^  from  these 
dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom  ! 

"  The  grave  hath  won  thei-.     I  shall  boar  the 
gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  j'oung; 
And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling  l)lusli 
And  the  dark   tresses  to   the   soft   winds 
flung,— 
But  thou  no  moif  with  thy  sweet  voice  shall 
come 
To  rnci't  iM'',    .Misalom  ! 

"  AikI,  oil  '  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  hear. 
Like    a    bruiserl    reed,    is    waiting    to    bi 
lirukcii, 
Flow  will  its  love  for  tlnM',  as  I  di'part, 
Yearn  for  thine  car  to  drink    its  iH.4  <h^(!j 
token  ! 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHRISTMAS  TREE.  397 


It  were   so   sweet,  amid    death's   gatliering 
gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom  ! 

*'  And  now  farewell.     'Tis  hard  to  give  thee 


May  God  have  called  thee,  like  a  wandertr. 
home, 
My  lost  boy,  Absalom  !" 

He  covered  up  his  face,  and  bowed  himsell 


up,  A  moment  on  his  child  ;  then  giving  him 

With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on      A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasped 

thee;  .  His  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer: 

Ami  thy  dark  sin — oh  !    I  could  drink  the      And  as  if  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 

cup  He  rose  up  calmly  and  composed  the  pall 
If  from   this   woe  its  bitterness  had  won      Firmly  and  decently, — and  left  him  there, 

thee.  As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


CHARLES    DICKENS. 


I  HAVE  been  looking  on,  this  evening,  at  a  merry  company  of  children 
1     assembled  round  that  pretty  German  toy,  a  Christmas  tree. 

Being  now  at  home  again,  and  alone,  the  only  person  in  the  houso 
awake,  my  thoughts  are  drawn  back,  by  a  fascination  which  1  do 
not  care  to  resist,  to  my  own  childhood.  Straight  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  cramped  in  the  freedom  of  its  growth  by  no  encircling  walls 
or  soon-reached  ceiling,  a  shadowy  tree  arises ;  and,  looking  up  into  the 
dreamy  brightness  of  its  top, — for  I  observe  in  this  tree  the  singular 
property  that  it  appears  to  grow  downward  towards  the  earth, — I  look 
into  my  youngest  Christmas  recollections. 

All  toys  at  first  I  find.  But  upon  the  branches  of  the  tree  lower 
down,  how  thick  the  books  begin  to  hang !  Thin  books,  in  themselves,  at 
first,  but  many  of  them,  with  deliciously  smooth  covers  of  bright  red  or 
green.    What  fat  black  letters  to  begin  with ! 

"  A  was  an  archer,  and  shot  at  a  frog."  Of  course  he  was.  He  was 
an  apple-pie  also,  and  there  he  is!  He  was  a  good  many  things  in  his 
time,  was  A,  and  so  were  most  of  his  friends,  except  X,  who  had  so  little 
versatility  that  I  never  knew  him  to  get  beyond  Xerxes  or  Xantippe :  like 
Y,  who  was  always  confined  to  a  yacht  or  a  yew-tree ;  and  Z,  condemned 
forever  to  be  a  zebra  or  a  zany. 

But  now  the  very  tree  itself  changes,  and  becomes  a  bean-stalk, — the 

marvelous   bean-stalk  by  which  Jack   climbed  up  to   the  giant's  house. 

Jack, — how  noble,  with  his  sword  of  sharpness  and  his  shoes  of  swiftness  I 

Good  for  Christmas-time  is  the  ruddy  color  of  the  cloak  in  which  the 


308  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MY  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 

tree  making  a  forest  of  itself  for  her  to  trip  through  with  her  basket, 
Little  Eed  Kiding-Hood  comes  to  me  one  Chi'istmas  eve,  to  give  me  infor- 
mation of  the  cruelty  and  treachery  of  that  dissembling  wolf  who  ate  her 
grandmother,  without  making  any  impression  on  his  appetite,  and  then  ate 
her,  after  making  that  ferocious  joke  about  his  teeth.  She  was  my  first 
love.  I  felt  that  if  I  could  have  married  Little  Ked  Eiding-Hood  I  should 
have  known  perfect  bliss.  But  it  was  not  to  be,  and  there  was  nothing  for 
it  but  to  look  out  the  wolf  in  the  Noah's  Ark  there,  and  put  him  late  in 
the  procession,  on  the  table,  as  a  monster  who  was  to  be  degraded. 

Oh,  the  wonderful  Noah's  Ark !  It  was  not  found  seaworthy  when 
put  in  a  washing-tub,  and  the  animals  were  crammed  in  at  the  roof,  and 
needed  to  have  their  legs  well  shaken  down  before  they  could  be  got  in 
even  there ;  and  then  ten  to  one  but  they  began  to  tumble  out  at  the  door, 
which  was  but  imperfectly  fastened  with  a  wire  latch ;  but  what  was  that 
against  it  ? 

Consider  the  noble  fly,  a  size  or  two  smaller  than  the  elephant ;  the 
lady-bird,  the  butterfly, — all  triumphs  of  art !  consider  the  goose,  whose 
feet  were  so  small,  and  whose  balance  was  so  indifferent  that  he  usually 
tumbled  forward  and  knocked  down  all  the  animal  creation !  consider  Noah 
and  his  family,  like  idiotic  tobacco-stoppers ;  and  how  the  leopard  stuck  to 
warm  little  fingers  ;  and  how  the  tails  of  the  larger  animals  used  gradually 
to  resolve  themselves  into  frayed  bits  of  string. 

Hush  !  Again  a  forest,  and  somebody  up  in  a  tree, — not  Robin  Hood, 
not  Valentine,  not  the  Yellow  Dwarf, — I  have  passed  him  and  all  Mother 
Bunch's  wonders  without  mention, — but  an  Eastern  King  with  a  glittering 
Bcimitar  and  turban.     It  is  the  setting  in  of  the  bright  Arabian  Nights. 

Oh,  now  all  common  things  become  uncommon  and  enchanted  to 
me !  All  lamps  are  wonderful !  all  rings  are  talismans !  Common  flower- 
pots are  full  of  treasure,  with  a  little  earth  scattered  on  the  top  ;  trees  are 
for  Ali  Baba  to  hide  in ;  beefsteaks  are  to  throw  down  into  the  Valley  of 
Diamonds,  that  the  precious  stones  may  stick  to  them,  and  be  carried  by 
the  eagles  to  their  nests,  whence  the  traders,  with  loud  cries,  will  scare 
them.  All  the  dates  imported  come  from  the  same  tree  as  that  Mnlucky 
one  with  whose  shell  the  merchant  knocked  out  the  eye  of  the  genii's 
invisible  son.  All  olives  are  of  the  same  stock  of  that  fresh  fruit,  con- 
cerning which  the  Commander  of  the  Faithful  overheard  the  boy  conduct 
the  fictitious  trial  of  the  fraudulent  olivc-morchant.  Yes,  on  every  object 
that  I  recognize  among  the  upper  branches  of  my  Christmaw  tree  I  see 
thiB  fairy  light  I 

But  hark  I  the  Waits  are  playing,  and  they  break  ray  childish  sloop  I 


THE  CREEDS  OF  THE  BELLS.  309 


What  images  do  I  associate  with  the  Christmas  music  as  I  see  them  set 
forth  on  the  Christmas  tree !  Known  before  all  the  others,  keeping  far  apart 
from  all  the  others,  they  gather  round  my  little  bed.  An  angel,  speaking 
to  a  group  of  shepherds  in  a  field ;  some  travelers,  with  eyes  uplifted,  fol- 
lowing a  star  ;  a  baby  in  a  manger  ;  a  child  in  a  spacious  temple,  talking 
with  grave  men :  a  solemn  figure  with  a  mild  and  beautiful  face,  raising  a 
dead  girl  by  the  hand ;  again,  near  a  city  gate,  calling  back  the  son  of  a 
widow  on  his  bier,  to  life ;  a  crowd  of  people  looking  through  the  opened 
roof  of  a  chamber  where  he  sits,  and  letting  down  a  sick  person  on  a  bed, 
with  ropes;  the  same,  in  a  tempest,  walking  on  the  waters;  in  a  ship, 
again,  on  a  sea-shore,  teaching  a  great  multitude ;  again,  with  a  child  upon 
his  knees,  and  other  children  around ;  again,  restoring  sight  to  the  blind, 
speech  to  the  dumb,  hearing  to  the  deaf,  health  to  the  sick,  strength  to  the 
lame,  knowledge  to  the  ignorant ;  again,  dying  upon  a  cross,  watched  by 
armed  soldiers,  a  darkness  coming  on,  the  earth  beginning  to  shake,  and 
only  one  voice  heard,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do !" 

Encircled  by .  the  social  thoughts  of  Christmas  time,  still  let  the 
benignant  figure  of  my  childhood  stand  unchanged !  In  every  cheerful 
image  and  suggestion  that  the  season  brings,  may  the  bright  star  that 
rested  above  the  poor  roof  be  the  star  of  all  the  Christian  world  ! 

A  moment's  pause,  0  vanishing  tree,  of  which  the  lower  boughs  are 
dark  to  me  yet,  and  let  me  look  once  more.  I  know  there  are  blank  opaces 
on  thy  branches,  where  eyes  that  I  have  loved  have  shone  and  smiled,  from 
which  they  are  departed.  But,  far  above,  I  see  the  Eaiser  of  the  dead  girl 
and  the  widow's  son, — and  God  is  good  ! 


THE  CREEDS  OF  THE  BELLS. 


GEORGE    W.    BUNGAY. 


)W  sweet  the  chime  of  the  Sabbath  '  "  This  is  the  church  not  built  on  sands, 
■:]^  bells !  Emblem  of  one  not  built  with  hands ; 

Each  one  its  creed  in  music  tells,         Its  forms  and  sacred  rights  revere, 
In  tones  that  float  upon  the  air,        j  Come  worship  here  !  come  worship  here! 
As  soft  as  song,  as  pure  as  prayer ;  I  In  rituals  and  faith  excel !" 
And  I  will  put  in  simple  rhyme  i  Chimed  out  the  Episcopalian  bell. 


The  language  of  the  golden  chime ; 
My  happy  heart  with  rapture  swells 
Responsive  to  the  bells,  sweet  bells. 

'In  deeds  of  love  excel!  excel !" 

Chimed  out  from  ivied  towers  a  bell ;  '  Can  change  the  just  eternal  plan 

21 


"  Oh  heed  the  ancient  landmarks  well!" 
In  solemn  tones  exclaimed  a  beil ; 
"  No  progress  made  by  mortal  man 


,?T0 


THE  CREEDS  OF  THE  BELLS. 


With  God  thera  can  be  nothing  new  ; 
Ignore  the  false,  embrace  the  true, 
While  all  is  well !  is  well !  is  well !" 
Pealed  out  the  good  old  Dutch  church  beU. 

'  Ye  purifying  waters  swell !" 
In  mellow  tones  rang  out  a  bell ; 
"  Though  faith  alone  in  Christ  can  save, 
Man  must  be  plunged  beneath  the  wave, 
To  show  the  world  unfaltering  faith 
In  what  the  sacred  scripture  saith  : 
0  swell !  ye  rising  waters,  swell !" 
Pealed  out  the  clear-toned  Baptist  bell. 


"  Not  faith  alone,  but  works  as  well. 
Must  test  the  soul !"  said  a  soft  bell ; 
"  Come  here  and  cast  aside  your  load. 
And  work  your  way  along  the  road, 
With  faith  in  God,  and  faith  in  man, 
And  hope  in  Christ,  where  hope  began  ; 
Do  well !  do  well  !  do  well !  do  well ;" 
Rang  out  the  Unitarian  bell. 

"  Farewell !  farewell !  base  world,  farewell !' 
In  touching  tones  exclaimed  a  bell ; 
"  Lite  is  a  boon,  to  mortals  given, 
To  fit  the  soul  for  bliss  in  heaven  ; 
Do  not  invoke  the  avenging  rod. 
Come  here  and  learn  the  way  to  God  ; 
Say  to  the  world  farewell !  farewell !" 
Pealed  forth  the  Presbyterian  b.ll. 

•'  To  all  \hr  ttntli  w  t'-ll  !  we  tell  "" 
Shouted  in  ecHtacii'i!  a  bell ; 
"  Come  all  ye  weary  wanderers,  see  I 
Our  Lord  has  made  nalvation  free! 


Repent,  believe,  have  faith,  and  then 
Be  saved,  and  praise  the  Lord,  Amen  i 
Salvation's  free,  we  tell!  we  tell  I" 
Shouted  the  Methodistic  bell. 

"  In  after  life  there  is  no  hell !" 
In  raptures  rang  a  cheerful  bell ; 
"  Look  up  to  heaven  this  holy  day, 
Where  angels  wait  to  lead  the  way  ; 
There  are  no  fire.s,  no  fiends  to  blight 
The  future  life  ;  be  just  and  right. 
No  hell!  no  hell!  no  hell !  no  hell!" 
Rang  out  the  Universalist  bell. 

"  The  Pilgrim  Fathers  heeded  well 

My  cheerful  voice,"  pealed  forth  a  bell  • 

"  No  fetters  here  to  clog  the  soul ; 

No  arbitrary  creeds  control 

The  free  heart  and  progressive  mind. 

That  leave  the  dusty  past  behind. 

Speed  well,   speed   well,   speed   well,  speea 

well !" 
Pealed  out  the  Independent  bell. 

"  No  pope,  no  pope,  to  doom  to  hell !" 
The  Protestant  rang  out  a  bell ; 
"Great  Luther  left  his  fiery  zeal 
Within  the  hearts  that  truly  feel 
That  loyalty  to  God  will  be 
The  fealty  that  makes  man  free. 
No  images  where  incense  fell !" 
Rang  out  old  Martin  Luther's  bell. 

"  All  hail,  ye  saints  in  heaven  that  dwell 
Close  by  the  cross  !"  exclaimed  a  bell ; 
"  Lean  o'er  the  battlements  of  bliss. 
And  deign  to  bless  a  world  like  this; 
Let  mortals  kneel  before  this  shrine — 
Adore  the  water  and  the  wine  ! 
All  hail  ye  saints,  the  chorus  swell !" 
Chimed  in  the  Roman  Cathnlio  bell. 

'  "  Ye  workers  who  have  toiled  so  well, 
To  save  the  race !"  said  a  sweet  bell ; 
"  With  Jiledge,  and  badge,  and  banner,  mm* 
Kaih  lirave  lioart  i)cating  like  a  dniiii  ; 
Hi'  roy.al  men  of  noble  deeds, 
For  loi'r  is  holier  than  creeds; 
Prink  from  the  well,  the  well,  tli>'  well' 
In  rapture  rang  the  Temperance  bell. 


HANS  AND  FRITZ. 


Oil 


e^^9 


HANS  AND  FRITZ. 


CHARLES    F.    ADAMS. 


f 


|aNS  and  Fritz  were  two  Deutschers  I  Hans  purchased  a  horse  of  a  neighbor  onr 

ll        who  lived  side  by  side,  '%- 

%  Remote   from   the  world,  its  deceit  I  And,  lacking  a  part  of  the    Geld,-^  they 

u  and  its  pride:  ^^J''  , 

With  their   pretzels    and   beer   the  |  Made  a  call  upon  Fritz  to  solicit  a  loan 

spare  moments  were  s.ent.  |  To  help  him  to  pay  for  his  beautiful  roan. 

And  the  fruits  of  their  labor  were  peace 

And  the  iruits  oi  ^  consented  the  money  to  lend, 

and  content.  -' 


312 


KORNER'S  SWORD  SONG. 


And  gave  the  required  amount  to  his  friend ;  '  Und  I  prings  you  der  note  und  der  money 
Remarking, — ^his    own  simple    language   to  I  some  day." 


quote, — 
"  Berhaps  it  vas  bedder  ve  make  us  a  note." 

The  note  was  drawn  up  in  their  primitive 
way,— 

"I  Hans,  gets  from  Fritz  feefty  tollars  to- 
day ;" 

When  the  question  arose,  the  note  being  made, 

"  Vich  von  holds  dot  baper  until  it  vas  baid?" 

"You  geeps  dot,"  says  Fritz,  "und  den  you 

vill  know 
You  owes  me  dot  money."    Says  Hans,  "  Dot 

ish  so : 
Dot  makes  me  remempers  I  haf  dot  to  bay, 


A  month  had  expired,  when  Hans,  as  agreed, 

Paid  back  the  amount,  and  from  debt  he  was 
freed. 

Says  Fritz,  "  Now  dot  settles  us."  Hans  re- 
plies, "  Yaw : 

Now  who  dakes  dot  baper  accordings  by 
law?" 

"I  geeps  dot  now,  aind't  it?"    says  Fritz; 

"den  you  see, 
I  alvays  remempers  you  paid  dot  to  me." 
Says  Hans,  "  Dot  ish  so :  it  vas  now  shust  so 

blain, 
Dot  I  knows  vot  to  do  ven  I  porrows  again." 


KORNERS  SWORD  SONG. 


Completed  one  hour  before  he  fell  on  the  battle-field,  August  26,  1813. 


r^^WORD  at  my  left  side  gleaming  ! 
P^  Why  is  thy  keen  glance,  beaming, 

So  fondly  bent  on  mine  ? 

I  love  that  smile  of  thine  ! 
Hurrah ! 

"  Borne  by  a  trooper  daring. 
My  looks  his  fire  glance  wearing, 
I  arm  a  freeman's  hand  : 
This  well  delights  thy  band  ! 
Hurrah !" 

Ay.  good  Bword,  free  I  wear  thee  ; 

And,  true  heart's  love,  I  bear  thee, 
Betrothed  one,  at  my  side, 
As  rny  dear,  chosen  bride ! 
Hurrah  ! 

•'To  thee  till  death  united, 

Thy  Btecl's  bright  life  is  plighted  ; 

Ah,  were  my  love  but  tried  ! 

When  wilt  thou  wed  thy  bride? 
Hurrah  '  " 

The  tempeflt'H  fcHtal  warning 
•shall  hail  our  bridal  mornmg  ; 


When  loud  the  cannon  chide, 
Then  clasp  I  my  loved  bride ! 
Hurrah  ! 

"  0  joy,  when  thine  arms  hold  me  ! 
I  pine  until  they  fold  me. 

Come  to  me!  bridegroom,  come! 

Thine  is  my  maiden  bloom. 
Hurrah  !" 

Wliy,  111  thy  sheatli  ujispringing, 
Thou  wild,  dear  uteel,  art  ringing? 

Why  clanging  with  delight, 

So  eager  for  the  fight  ? 

Hurrah ! 

"  Well  may  tliy  scabbard  rattle ; 

Trooper,  I  pant  for  battle ; 
Right  eager  for  the  fight, 
I  clang  witli  wild  delight. 

llurrali !" 

Wiiy  tliUH,  my  love,  (brtli  creeping? 
Stay  in  tliy  chamber,  Hleefiing; 

Wait  .Mlill,  in  tlie  narrow  room; 

Soon  for  my  brido  I  come. 
Hurrah  I 


SCHOOLING  A  HUSBAND. 


31-3 


"  Keep  me  not  longer  pining  ! 

O  for  love's  garden  shining 
With  roses  bleeding  rsd, 
And  blooming  with  the  dead  ' 
Hurrah  !" 

Come  from  thy  sheath,  then,  treasure! 
Thou  trooper's  true  eye-pleasure  ! 

Come  forth,  my  good  sword,  come 

Enter  thy  father-home ! 

Hurrah ! 

"  Ha !  in  the  free  air  glancing, 
How  brave  this  bridal  dancing ! 

How,  in  the  sun's  glad  beams  ! 

Bride -like,  thy  bright  steel  gleams  ! 
Hurrah  !" 

Come  on,  ye  German  horsemen  I 
Come  on,  ye  valiant  Norsemen  ! 

Swells  not  your  hearts'  warm  tide  ? 

Clasp  each  in  hand  his  bride  ! 
Hurrah ! 

Once  at  your  left  side  sleeping. 
Scarce  her  veiled  glance  forth  peeping. 
Now  wedded  with  your  right, 


God  plights  your  bride  in  the  light 
Hurrah ! 

Then  press  with  warm  caresses, 

Close  lips  -and  bridal  kisses, 

Your  steel ; — cursed  be  his  head 
Who  fails  the  bride  he  wed ! 
Hurrah ! 


Now  till  j^our  swords  flash,  flinging 
Clear  sparks  forth,  wave  them  singing. 

Day  dawns  for  bridal  pride ; 

Hurrah,  thou  iron  bride  ! 
Hurrah  ! 


SCHOOLING  A  HUSBAND. 


piPvS.  CENTRE  was  jealous.  She  was  one  of  those  discontented 
women  who  are  never  satisfied  unless  something  goes  wrong. 
When  the  sky  is  bright  and  pleasant  they  are  annoyed  because 
there  is  nothing  to  grumble  at.  The  trouble  is  not  with  the  out- 
ward world,  but  with  the  heart,  the  mind :  and  every  one  who 
wishes  to  grumble  will  find  a  subject. 
Mrs.  Centre  was  jealous.  Her  husband  was  a  very  good  sort  oi 
person,  though  he  probably  had  his  peculiarities.  At  any  rate,  he  had  a 
cousin,  whose  name  was  Sophia  Smithers,  and  who  was  very  pretty,  very 
intelligent,  and  very  amiable  and  kind-hearted.  I  dare  say  he  occasionally 
made  her  a  social  call,  to  which  his  wife  solemnly  and  seriously  objected, 
for  the  reason  that  Sophia  was  pretty,  intelligent,  amiable,  and  kind- 
hearted.     These  were  the  sum  total  of  her  sins. 

Centre  and  his  wife  boarded  at  a  private  establishment  at  the  South 


314  SCHOOLING  A  HUSBAND. 

end  of  Boston.  At  the  same  house  also  boarded  Centre's  particular,  inti- 
mate, and  confidential  friend,  Wallis,  with  his  wife.  Their  rooms  might 
almost  be  said  to  be  common  ground,  for  the  two  men  and  the  two  women 
were  constantly  together. 

WaUis  could  not  help  observing  that  Mrs.  Centre  watched  her  husband 
very  closely,  and  Centre  at  last  confessed  that  there  had  been  some 
difficulty.  So  they  talked  the  matter  over  together,  and  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  it  was  very  stupid  for  any  one  to  be  jealous,  most  of  all  for 
Mrs.  Centre  to  be  jealous.  What  they  did  I  don't  know,  but  one  evening 
Centre  entered  the  room,  and  found  Mrs.  Wallis  there. 

"My  dear,  I  am  obliged  to  go  out  a  few  moments  to  call  upon  a 
friend,"  said  Centre. 

"  To  call  upon  a  friend !"  sneered  Mrs.  Centre. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  shall  be  back  presently;"  and  Mr.  Centre  left  the  room. 

"  The  old  story,"  said  she,  when  ho  had  gone. 

"  If  it  was  my  husband  I  would  follow  him,"  said  Mrs.  Wallis. 

"  I  will !"  and  she  immediately  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl.  "  So- 
phia Smithers  lives  very  near,  and  I  am  sure  he  is  going  there." 

Centre  had  gone  up  stairs  to  put  on  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  in  a 
moment  she  saw  him  on  the  stairs.  She  could  not  mistake  him,  for  there 
was  no  other  gentleman  in  the  house  who  wore  such  a  peculiarly  shaped 
Kossuth  as  he  wore. 

He  passed  out,  and  Mrs.  Centre  passed  out  after  him.     She  followed 

the  queer  shaped  Kossuth  of  her  husband,  and  it  led  her  to  C Street, 

where  she  had  suspected  it  would  lead  her.  And  further,  it  led  her  to  the 
house  of  Smithers,  the  father  of  Sophia,  where  she  suspected  also  it  would 
lead  her. 

Mrs.  Centre  was  very  unhappy.  Her  husband  had  ceased  to  love  her; 
he  loved  another ;  he  loved  Sophia  Smithers.  She  could  have  torn  the 
pretty,  intelligent,  amiable,  and  kind-hearted  cousin  of  hor  husband  in 
pieces  at  that  moment ;  but  sho  had  the  fortitude  Ko  curl)  her  belligerent 
tendencies,  and  ring  the  door-bell. 

She  was  shown  into  the  sitting-room,  where  the  U-autiful  girl  of  many 
virtues  was  engaged  in  sewing. 

"Is  my  husband  here?"  she  (h.-inandi'd. 

"Mr.  ('cuivc?  Bless  you,  no!     H*;  hasn't  been  lien;  for  a  inontii." 

Graoiou.s!  What  a  whopper  !  Was  it  true  that  slie  whoso  multitudi- 
nous qualities  had  Ixien  so  often  rehoars(!d  to  her  could  tell  a  lio  ?  Hadn't  she 
fifon  the  peculiar  Kossuth  of  her  liusband  enter  that  door?  Hadn't  she 
followed  that  unmistakable  hat  to  the  house  ? 


SCHOOLING  A  HUSBAND.  3x5 


She  was  amazed  at  the  coolness  of  her  husband's  fair  cousin.  Before, 
she  had  believed  it  was  only  a  flirtation.  Now,  she  was  sure  it  was  some- 
thing infinitely  worse,  and  she  thought  about  a  divorce,  or  at  least  a  separa- 
tion. 

She  was  astounded,  and  asked  no  more  questions.  Did  the  guilty  pair 
hope  to  deceive  her — her,  the  argus-eyed  wife  ?  She  had  some  shrewd- 
ness, and  she  had  the  cunning  to  conceal  her  purpose  by  refraining  from 
any  appearance  of  distrust.  After  a  few  words  upon  commonplace  topics, 
she  took  her  leave. 

When  she  reached  the  sidewalk,  there  she  planted  herself,  determined 
to  wait  till  Centre  came  out.  For  more  than  an  hour  she  stood  there, 
nursing  the  yellow  demon  of  jealousy.  He  came  not.  While  she,  the  true, 
faithful,  and  legal  wife  of  Centre,  WdS  waiting  on  the  cold  pavement, 
shivering  in  the  cold  blast  of  autumn,  he  was  folded  in  the  arms  of  the 
black-hearted  Sophia,  before  a  comfortable  coal-fire. 

She  was  catching  her  death  a-cold.  What  did  he  care — the  brute ' 
He  was  bestowing  his  affections  upon  her  who  had  no  legal  right  to  them. 

The  wind  blew,  and  it  began  to  rain.  She  could  stand  it  no  longer. 
She  should  die  before  she  got  the  divorce,  and  that  was  just  what  the 
inhuman  Centre  would  wish  her  to  do.  She  must  preserve  her  precious 
life  for  the  present,  and  she  reluctantly  concluded  to  go  home.  Centre  had 
not  come  out,  and  it  required  a  struggle  for  her  to  forego  the  exposure  oi 
the  nefarious  scheme. 

She  rushed  into  the  house, — into  her  room.  Mrs.  Wallis  was  there 
still.  Throwing  herself  upon  the  sofa,  she  wept  like  a  great  baby.  Her 
friend  tried  to  comfort  her,  but  she  was  firmly  resolved  not  to  be  comforted. 
In  vain  Mrs.  Wallis  tried  to  assure  her  of  the  fidelity  of  her  husband.  She 
would  not  listen  to  the  words.  But  while  she  was  thus  weeping,  Mr. 
Centre  entered  the  room,  looking  just  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

"You  wretch  !"  sobbed  the  lad3\ 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  dear?"  coolly  inquired  the  gentleman,  tor  lie 
had  not  passed  through  the  battle  and  storm  of  matrimonial  warfare  with- 
out being  able  to  "  stand  fire." 

"  You  wretch  !"  repeated  the  lady,  with  compound  unction. 

"  What  has  happened  ?" 

"  You  insult  me,  abuse  me,  and  then  ask  me  what  the  matter  is '' 

cried  the  lady.     "  Haven't  I  been  waiting  in  C Street  for  two  hours 

for  you  to  come  out  of  Smithers'  house?" 

"  Have  you  ?" 

"  I  have,  you  wretch  I" 


31$  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

"And  I  did  not  come  out  ?" 

"No!  You  know  you  didn't!" 

"  There  was  an  excellent  reason  for  that,  my  dear.  I  wasn't  there," 
said  Centre,  calmly. 

"  You  weren't  there,  you  wretch !  How  dare  you  tell  me  such  an 
abominable  he !  But  I  have  found  you  out.  You  go  there  every  day,  yes, 
twice,  three  times,  a  day  !  I  know  your  amiable  cousin,  now  !  She  can  lie 
as  well  as  you!" 

"  Sophia  tell  a  lie  !     Oh,  no,  my  dear  !" 

"  But  she  did.     She  said  you  were  not  there." 

"That  was  very  true;  I  was  not." 

"  How  dare  you  tell  me  such  a  lie  !  You  have  been  with  Sophia  all 
the  evening.     She  is  a  nasty  baggage  !" 

"  Nay,  Mrs.  Centre,  you  are  mistaken,"  interposed  Mrs.  Wallis.  *'Mr. 
Centre  has  been  with  me  in  this  room  all  the  evening." 

"  What !  didn't  I  see  him  go  out,  and  follow  him  to  C Street  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  haven't  been  out  this  evening.  I  changed  my 
mind." 

Just  then  Wallis  entered  the  room  with  that  peculiar  Kossuth  on  his 
head,  and  the  mystery  was  explained.  Mrs.  Centre  was  not  a  little  con- 
fused, and  very  much  ashamed  of  herself. 

Wallis  had  been  in  Smithers'  library  smoking  a  cigar,  and  had  not 
seen  Sophia.  Her  statement  that  she  had  not  seen  Centre  for  a  month  was 
Btrictly  true,  and  Mrs.  Centre  was  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  she  had 
been  jealous  without  a  cause,  though  she  was  not  "  let  into  "  the  plot  of 
Wallis. 

But  Centre  should  have  known  better  than  to  tell  his  wife  what  a 
pretty,  intelligent,  amiable,  and  kind-hearted  girl  Sophia  was.  No  hu» 
band  should  speak  well  of  any  lady  but  his  wife. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


^T'LIj  knoc-deep  lies  the  winter  anow,         You  came  to  us  so  readily, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  You  lived  with  us  so  steadily ; 

^^(^  sighing:  Old  year,  you  sliall  not  die. 

"iy.         Toll  ye  tli(fclinrrh-bell,  sad  and  slow,  j 

And  tread  softly  an<l  sy.eak  low  ;  "^  '"''t''  "^iH  ;  ho  doth  not  move  ; 

!  For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying.  ''c  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day; 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die  ;  ,  ^^^  ^^^^  ^'^  '^^^^'"  ^'^^  ^^^^^^ : 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 


317 


He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true,  true  love, 

And  the  New-year  blithe  and    hold,  my 

And  the  New-year  will  take  them  away. 

friend. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go ; 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us. 

Such  joy  as  you  liave  seen  with  us, — 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  o'er  the  enow 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 

The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro, 

He  frothed  his  bumpers  to  the  brim  ; 

The  cricket  chirps,  the  light  burns  low,^ 

A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 

'Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

But  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 

Shake  hands  before  you  die. 

And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 

Old  year,  we'll  dearly  rue  for  you. 

He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you? — 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die ; 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 
Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin  ;— 

Alack  !  our  friend  is  gone. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest ; 

Close  up  his  eyes,  tie  up  his  chin. 

But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 

Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 

To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 

Who  standeth  there  alone, 

His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post  haste, 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

But  he'll  be  dead  before. 

There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend. 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 

BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


P  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn. 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn. 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick 
stand. 

Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Mary- 
land. 


Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord, 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde. 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  Fall, 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall. 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 


Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars. 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  four-score  years  and  ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down 

In  her  attic-window  the  stafiF  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead ; 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced  :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 


318 


CIVIL  WAR. 


"  Halt !  " — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast ; 
"  Fire !  " — out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash, 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell  from  the  broken  staff,* 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf ; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill. 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

'Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
3ut  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word. 

■■  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  I     March  on  !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet ; 


All  day  long  that  free  flag  tossed 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset-light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Baibara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more 

Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave 
Flag  of  Frcedem  and  Union,  wave ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town. 


P|S^  Straight    at    the     heart     of    yon 

f^f"  prowling  vedette  ; 

^1*^     Ring  me  a  ball  in  the  glittering  spot 

I        That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an 

J  amulet  I " 

'Ah,  captain  I  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead, 
There's  music  around  when  my  barrel's  in 

tunc ! " 
Crack  !  went  the  rifle,  the  messenger  sped, 
And  dead   from   his  horse  fell   the   ringing 

dragoon. 

'Now,   rifleman,  steal   through   the  bushes 

and  snatch 
From   your   victim  some  trinket  to   hansel 

first  blood  ; 
/\  butt/^)n   a  \-»op,  or  that  luminous  patdi 
riiatgleamt*  in  the  moon  like  adiamond  stud  !" 

'Oh  captain  !  I  staggered,  and  sunk  on  my 

tra<-k, 
Whi;ii    I    gazed    on   the   fax;    of   tliat    falbn 

vedette, 


CIVIL  WAR. 


For  he  looked  so  like  3'ou,  as  he  lay  on  his 

back. 
That  my  heart  rose  upon  nie,  and  masters  me 

yet. 

"  But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket, — ihis  locket 

of  gold  ; 
An  inch    from  the  centre  my  load  broke  its 

way. 
Scarce  grazing  tlie  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 
Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  briilal  array." 
"  Ila !  rifleman,  fling  me  tlie  locket ! — 'tis  slie. 
My  brother's  young  bride, — and   tlie  fallen 

dragoon 
Was    her    liusband — IIusli  !     sol. Her,    'twas 

Heaven's  decree, 
Wc  must  bury  him  tlierc,  l)y  tlir  light  <if  tho 

moon ! 
"  P.iit   liark'   the  f;ir   biigh'S   llicir   warnings 

unite ; 
War  is  a  virtue, — weakness  a  sin  ; 
There's    a    lurking    and    lojiing    arnuml    us 

to  night ; — 
Load  again,  rideiiian,  kefj,  ynur  liaii'l  in '  " 


GO,  FEEL  WHAT  I  HAVE  FELT. 


319 


HARK,  HARK!  THE  LARK. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


VRK,  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate 
sings, 
^        And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 

His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 
On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 


And  winking  Mary -buds  begin 
To  ope  their  golden  eyes ; 

With  everything  that  pretty  bin. 
My  lady  sweet,  arise  ; 
Arise,  arise ! 


GO,  FEEL   WHAT  T  HA  VE  FELT. 

^KO,  fee/  what  I  have  felt, 
'^      Go,  bear  what  I  have  born ; 
'"*Sink  'neath  a  blow  a  father  dealt, 


i  And  the  cold,  proud  world's  scorn. 

!Thus  struggle  on  from  year  to  year. 
Thy  sole  relief  the  scalding  tear. 

Go,  weep  as  I  have  wept 

O'er  a  loved  father's  fall ; 
See  every  cherished  promise  swept, 
Youth's  sweetness  turned  to  gall ; 
Hope's  faded  flowers  strewed  all  the  way, 
Tnao  led  me  up  to  woman's  day. 


Go,  kneel  as  I  have  knelt: 

Implore,  beseech  and  pray, 
Strive  the  besotted  heart  to  melt, 
The  downward  course  to  stay ; 
Be  cast  with  bitter  curse  aside, — 
Thy  prayers  burlesqued,  thy  tears  defied. 


Go,  stand  where  I  have  stood, 

And  see  the  strong  man  bow  ; 
With  gnashing  teeth,  lips  bathed  in  bioo-i 
And  cold  and  livid  brow  ; 
Go,  catch  his  wandering  glance,  and  see 
There  mirrored  his  soul's  misery. 


320 


THE  DEACON'S  PRAYER. 


Go,  hear  what  I  have  heard, — 

The  sobs  of  sad  despair, 
As  memory's  feeling  fount  hath  stirred, 
And  its  revealings  there 
Have  told  him  what  he  might  have  been. 
Had  he  the  drunkard's  fate  foreseen. 

Go  to  my  mother's  side, 

And  her  crushed  spirit  cheer; 

Thine  own  deep  anguish  hide, 
Wipe  from  her  cheek  the  tear; 
Mark  her  diri^med  eye,  her  furrowed  brow. 
The  gray  that  streaks  her  dark  hair  now. 
The  toil-worn  frame,  the  trembling  limb, 
And  trace  the  ruin  back  to  him 
Whose  plighted  faith  in  early  youth. 
Promised  eternal  love  and  truth. 
But  who,  forsworn,  hath  yielded  up 
This  promise  to  the  deadly  cup, 


And  led  her  down  from  love  and  light. 
From  all  that  made  her  pathway  bright, 
And  chained  her  there  mid  want  and  strife, 
That  lowly  thing, — a  drunkard's  wife ! 
And  stamped  on  childhood's  brow,  so  mild. 
That  withering  blight, — a  drunkard's  child! 

Go,  hear,  and  see,  and  feel,  and  know 

All  that  my  soul  hath  felt  and  known, 
Then  look  within  the  wine-cup's  glow; 
See  if  its  brightness  can  atone ; 
Think  of  its  flavor  would  you  try. 
If  all  proclaimed, — '  Tis  drink  and  die. 

Tell  me  I  hate  the  bowl, — 

Hate  is  a  feeble  word ; 
I  loathe,  abhor,  my  very  soul 
By  strong  disgust  is  stirred 
Whene'er  I  see,  or  hear,  or  tell 

Of  the  DARK  BEVERAGE  OF  HELL  I 


THE  DEACON'S  PRAYER. 


WILLIAM    O.    STODDART. 


flSH^N  the  regular  evening  meeting 
S^     That  the  church-holds  every  week, 
!^F  One  night  a  listening  angel  sat 
I        To  hear  them  pray  and  speak. 

It  puzzled  the  soul  of  the  angel 
Why  some  to  that  gathering  came. 
But  sick  and  sinful  hearts  he  saw, 
With  grief  and  guilt  aflame. 

Tliey  were  silent,  but  said  to  the  angel, 
"Our  lives  have  need  of  Ilim  !" 

While   doubt,  with   dull,    vague,    throl)bing 
pain. 
Stirred  through  th'ir  spiritt  dun. 

Ton  could  fee  'twas  the  regular  mooting, 
And  th';  ri'gular  scats  wero  filh^d, 

And  all  knew  who  would  pray  aii<l  talk, 
Though  any  one  might  that  vil'ed. 

From  his  place  in  front,  near  th';  puljiit. 
In  bin  long  accustomed  way. 


;   AVhen  the  Book  was  read,  and  the  hymn  wa« 
sung. 
The  Deacon  arose  to  pray. 

First  came  the  long  preamble — 
If  Peter  had  opened  so, 
i  He  had  been,   ere  the   Lord  his  prayer  had 
heard. 
Full  fifty  fathom  below. 

Then  a  volume  of  information 

Poured  forth,  as  if  to  the  Lord, 
Concerning  Ilis  ways  and  attributos, 

And  the  tilings  by  Him  abhorred. 

But  not  in  the  list  of  the  latter 

Was  nientidned  (ho  mocking  breath 

Of  tlio  hypocrite  jirayor  that  is  not  a  prayer. 
Ami  the  mako-boliovo  life  in  death. 

Then    ho    prayed    for    the    chiinli;    an<l    the 
jiastor ; 
And  (hat  "  Houls  might  be  his  biro'" — 


MEDITATION  AT  AN  INFANT'S  TOMB.  321 


Whatever  his  stipend  otherwise — 

And  the  Sunday-school ;  and  the  choir ; 

And  the  swarming  hordes  of  India; 

And  the  perishing,  vile  Chinese ; 
And  the  millions  who  bow  to  the  Pope  of 
Rome ; 

And  the  pagan  churches  of  Greece ; 

And  the  outcast  remnants  of  Judah, 

Of  whose  guilt  he  had  much  to  tell — 
He  prayed,  or  lie  told  the  Lord  he  prayed,       |  But  the  listening  angel  told  the  Lord 

For  everything  out  of  Hell.  '       That  only  the  silent  prayed. 


Now,  if  all  of  that  burden  had  really 

Been  weighing  upon  his  soul, 
'Twould  have  sunk  him  through  to  the  Chin* 
side, 

And  raised  a  hill  over  the  hole. 


Twas  the  regular  evening  meeting, 
And  the  regular  prayers  were  made, 


MEDITATION  AT  AN  INFANTS  TOMB. 


JAMES   HERVEY. 


^^ONDEE  white  stone,  emblem  of  the  innocence  it  covers,  informs  the 
beholder  of  one  who  breathed  out  its  tender  soul  almost  in  the 
instant  of  receiving  it.  There,  the  peaceful  infant,  without  so 
much  as  knowing  what  labor  and  vexation  mean,  "  lies  still  and  is 
quiet;  it  sleeps  and  is  at  rest."  What  did  the  little  sojourner  find 
so  forbidding  and  disgustful  in  our  upper  world,  to  occasion  its 
precipitate  exit  ?  'Tis  written,  indeed,  of  its  suffering  Saviour,  that  when 
he  had  tasted  the  vinegar  mingled  with  gall,  he  would  not  drink.  And  did 
our  new-come  stranger  begin  to  sip  the  cup  of  life ;  but,  perceiving  the 
bitterness,  turn  away  its  head,  and  refuse  the  draught  ? 

Happy  voyager  !  no  sooner  launched,  than  arrived  at  the  haven  !  But 
more  eminently  happy  they,  who  have  passed  the  waves,  and  weathered  all 
the  storms  of  a  troublesome  and  dangerous  world !  who,  "  through  many 
tribulations,  have  entered  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven;"  and  thereby 
brought  honor  to  their  divine  Convoy,  administered  comfort  to  the  com- 
panions of  their  toil,  and  left  an  instructive  example. 

Highly  favored  probationer  !  accepted,  without  being  exercised  !  I-t 
was  thy  peculiar  privilege,  not  to  feel  the  slightest  of  those  evils  which 
oppress  thy  surviving  kindred ;  which  frequently  fetch  groans  from  the 
most  manly  fortitude  or  most  elevated  faith.  The  arrows  of  calamity, 
barbed  with  anguish,  are  often  fixed  deep  in  our  choicest  comforts.  The 
fiery  darts  of  temptation,  shot  from  the  hand  of  hell,  are  always  flying  in 
showers  around  our  integrity.  To  thee,  sweet  babe,  both  these  distresses 
and  dans;ers  were  alike  unknown. 


322 


«     EXCELSIOR. 


Consider  this,  ye  mourning  parents,  and  dry  up  your  tears.  Whj 
should  you  lament  that  your  little  ones  are  crowned  with  victory,  before 
the  sword  is  drawn  or  the  conflict  begun  ?  Perhaps,  the  Supreme  Disposer 
of  events  foresaw  some  inevitable  snare  of  temptation  forming,  or  some 
dreadful  storm  of  adversity  impending.  And  wliv  should  you  be  so 
dissatisfied  with  that  kind  precaution,  which  housed  vour  pleasant  plant, 
and  removed  into  shelter  a  tender  flower,  before  the  thunders  roared ;  before 
the  lightnings  flew;  before  the  tempest  poured  its  rage? 

At  the  same  time,  let  survivors,  doomed  to  bear  the  heat  and  burden  of 
the  day,  for  their  encouragement  reflect,  that  it  is  more  honorable  to  have 
entered  the  lists,  and  to  have  fought  the  good  fight ;  before  they  come  ofl' 
conquerors.  They  who  have  borne  the  cross,  and  submitted  to  afilictive 
providences,  with  a  cheerful  resignation ;  have  girded  up  the  loins  of  their 
mind,  and  performed  their  Master's  will,  with  an  honest  and  persevering 
fidelity ;  these,  having  glorified  their  Eedeemer  on  earth,  will,  probably, 
be  as  stars  of  the  first  magnitude  in  heaven. 


EXCELSIOR. 


,  ^^ 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


HE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fa^t, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  mid  snow  and 
ice, 
A  banner  with  a  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 


His  brow  was  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath; 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Exi^ftlsior  I 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 
Above,  the  apectral  glaciers  shone  ; 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior  ! 

"  Try  not  the  j»ass  !"  the  old  man  said  ; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
Tlie  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  !"- 
And  loud  tliat  clarinn  voice  replied, 
Excelsior  t 


"Oh!  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  '  lui'l  n-l 
Thy  weary  head  upcn  this  breast!" 
A  tear  stood  la  Li.s  bnglit  \<\w  eye; 


PADDY'S  EXCELSIOR. 


323 


But  suil  he  answered,  witli  a  sigh, 
Excelsior  ! 


ren-h ! 


"Beware  the  pine-tree's  withe. 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !" 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  good-night;— 
A  voice  replied  far  up  the  height. 
Excelsior  ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  St.  Bernard 
littered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air. 
Excelsior  ! 


A  traveler, — by  the  faithful  hound. 
Half  buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice. 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior  ! 


There,  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay  ; 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, — 
Excelsior  I 


FADDY' S  EXCELSIOR 


WAS  growin  dark  so  terrible  fasht, 
Whin  through  a  town  up  the  moun- 
tain there  pashed 
A  broth  of  a  boy,  to  his  neck  in 

the  shnow ; 
As    he    walked,   his    shillalah    he 
swung  to  and  fro, 
Saying :    "  It's  up  to  the  top  I    am 
bound  for  to  go. 
Be  jabbers !" 


He  looked  mortal  sad,  and  his  eye  was  as 

bright 
As  a  fire  of  turf  on  a  cowld  winther  night ; 
And  niver  a  word  that  he  said  could  ye  tell 
As  he  opened  his  mouth  and  lot  out  a  yell, 
"  It's  up  till  the  top  of  the  mountain  I'll  go, 
Onless    covered    up    wid    this    bodthersome 

shnow, 

Be  jabbers !" 

Through  the  windows  he  saw,  as  he  thra- 

veled  along. 
The  light  of  the  candles  and  fires  so  warm. 
But  a  big  chunk  of  ice  hung  over  his  head ; 
Wid  a  shnivel  and  groan,  "  By  St.  Patrick!" 

he  said, 
"  It's  up  to  the  very  tip-top  I  will  rush, 
And  then  if  it  falls,  it's  not  meself  it'll  crush, 
Be  jabbers!" 


"  Whisht  a  bit,"  said  an  owld  man,  whose 
hair  was  as  white 

As  the  shnow  that  fell  down  on  that  miser- 
able night ; 

"  Shure  ye'll  fall  in  the  wather,  me  bit  of  a 
lad. 

Fur  the  night  is  so  dark  and  the  walkin'  is 
bad." 

Bedad!  he'd  not  lisht  to  a  word  that  was 
said. 

But  he'd  go  to  the  top,  if  he  went  on  his 
head. 

Be  jabbers ! 

A  bright,  buxom  young  girl,  such  as  likes  to 

be  kissed, 
Axed  him  wouldn't  he  stop,  and  how  could 

he  resist  ? 
So  shnapping  his  fingers  and  winking   his 

eye. 
While  shmiling  upon  her,  he  made  this  re- 
ply— 
"  Faith,  I  meant  to  kape  on  till  I  got  to  the 

top, 
But,  as  yer  shwate  self  has  axed  me.  I  may 
as  well  shtop 

Be  jabbers ! ' 

He  shtopped  all  night  and  he  shtopped  all 
day, — 


324 


FATHER  TIME'S  CHANGELING. 


And  ye  musn't  be   axin   whin   he   did  go  |  Whin  the  owld  man  has  peraties  enough  anci 


away ; 
Fur  wouldn't  he  be  a  bastely  gossoon 
To  be  lavin  his  darlint  in  the  swate  honey- 
moon ? 


to  spare, 

Shure  he  moight  as  well  shtay  if  he's  com. 
fortable  there, 

Be  jabbers! 


THE  CHINESE  EXCELSIOR. 


FROM    "THE   BOY    TRAVELERS. 


^  oi:|^r^  ■  — 

?Wra?IIAT  nightee  teem  he  come  chop-chop 
^I^  One  young  man  walkee,  no  can  stop  ; 

Maskee  snow,  maskee  ice  ; 

He  cally  flag  wit'h  chop  so  nice — 
el'  Top-side  Galah  I 

Jf  'He  muchee  soUy  :  one  piecee  eye 

T  Lookee  sharp — so  fashion — my  ; 

He  talkee  large,  he  talkee  stlong. 
Too  muchee  culio  ;  allee  same  gong. — 
Top-side  Galah  ! 

'Insidee  house  he  can  see  light. 
And  evly  loom  got  fire  all  light; 
He  lookee  plenty  ice  more  high, 
Insidee  mout'h  he  plenty  cly — 

Top-side  Galah ! 

'Ole  man  talkee,  "  No  can  walk, 
Bimeby  lain  come,  velly  dark  ; 


Have  got  water,  velly  wide .'" 
Maskee,  my  must  go  top-side, — 

Top-side  Galah ! 
"  Man-man  "  one  girlee  talkee  he : 
"  What  for  you  go  top-side  look — see?  ' 
And  one  teem  more  he  plenty  cly, 
But  allee  teem  walk  plenty  liigli — 

Top -side  Galah! 
"  Take  care  t'hat  spilura  tlee,  young  man 
Take  care  t'hat  ice,  must  go  man-man." 
One  coolie  chin-chin  he  good-night ; 
He  talkee,  "  My  can  go  all  light  " — 

Top-side  Galah ! 
That  young  man  die  :  one  large  dog  see 
Too  muchee  bobbly  findee  he, 
He  hand  b'long  coldee,  all  same  like  ice, 
He  holdee  flag,  wit'h  chop  so  nice — 

Top-side  Galah  ! 


FATHER  TIME'S  CHANGELING. 


A   STORY    TOLD   TO    GRACIE. 


INE  day  in  summer's  glow, 
Not  many  years  ago, 
A  little  babe  lay  on  my  knee. 
With  rings  of  silken  hair. 
And  fingers  waxen  fair, 
Tiny    and    soft,    and    ])ink    as 
could  be. 


ink 


We  watched  it  thrive  and  grow— 

Ah  ine  !  We  loved  it  so — 
And  marked  iU  daily  gain  in  sweeter  charms 

It  learned  to  laugh  and  crow, 

Avid  j.lay  and  kis-n  uh— ho  — 
Uutil  one  day  we  missed  it  from  our  arms. 


In  sudden,  strange  surprise 

We  met  each  other's  eyes. 
Asking.  "  Who  stole  our  pretty  babe  away  ?' 

We  questioned  earth  and  air, 

But,  seeking  everywhere. 
We  never  fonn<l  it  from  that  giunmcr  ilay 

But  in  it«  wonti'd  place 

There  was  anotlior  face — 
A  little  girl's,  with  yellow  curly  hair 

About  her  shoulders  tossed  ; 

And  tlu!  sweet  balx'  we  lost 
Seemed  sometimes  looking  from  her  eyes  si 
fair. 


AIRY  NOTHINGS. 


325 


She  dances,  romps,  and  sings. 
And  does  a  hundred  things 

Which  my  lost  baby  never  tried  to  do ; 
She  longs  to  read  in  books, 
And  with  bright  eager  looks 

Is  always  asking  questions  strange  and  new. 

And  I  can  scarcely  tell, 

I  love  the  rogue  so  well, 
Whether   I   would   retrace  the   four   years' 
track, 

And  lose  the  merry  sprite 

Who  makes  my  home  so  bright 
To  have  again  my  little  baby  back. 


Ah,  Blue-eyes,  do  you  see 
Who  stole  my  babe  from  me, 

And  brought  the  little  girl  from  fairy  dims? 
A  gray  old  man  with  wings, 
Who  steals  all  precious  things ; 

He  lives  forever,  and  his  name  is  Time. 

He  rules  the  world  they  say ; 

He  took  my  babe  away — 
My  precious  babe — and  left  me  in  its  jdaoe 

This  little  maiden  fair, 

With  yellow  curly  hair. 
Who   lives   on  stories,  and    whose  name  k 
Grace ! 


^^.:-% 


AIRY  NOTHINGS. 


SHAKESPEARE 


^HR  revels  now  are  ended.     These,  our 
actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air — into  thin  air ; 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this 
vision. 

The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
22 


The  solemn  temples,  the  great  glob^  it  eli 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissol--' 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageam  ta/if' 
Leave   not   a   rack   behind.      We   ire  ^■•u^ 

stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of  and  our  lit:le  'lio 
Is  rounded  with  sleep. 


326 


THE  CHARITY  DINNER. 


TEE  CHARITY  DINNER. 


Time:  half-past  six  o'clock.     Place:  The  London  Tavern.     Occasion:  Fifteenth  Annual  Festival  of  the  So- 
ciety for  the  Distribution  of  Blankets  and  Top-Boots  among  the  Natives  of  the  Cannibal  Islands. 

LITCHFIELD    MOSELY. 


^N  enterincr  the  room  we  find  more  than  two  hundred  noblemen  and 
o-entlemen  already  assembled ;  and  the  number  is  increasing  every 
"^^  minute.  The  preparations  are  now  cctnplete,  and  we  are  in 
readiness  to  receive  the  chairman.  After  a  short  pause,  a  little 
door  at  the  end  of  the  room  opens,  and  the  great  man  appears,  attended 
by  an  admiring  circle  of  stewards  and  toadies,  carrying  white  wands 
like  a  parcel  of  charity-school  boys  bent  on  beating  the  bounds.  He 
advances  smilingly  to  his  post  at  the  pri-jicipal  table,  amid  deafening  and 
long-continued  cheers. 

The  dinner  now  makes  its  appearance,  ai_:  .ve  yield  up  ourselves  to  the 
enjoyments  of  eating  and  drinking.  These  important  duties  finished,  and 
grace  having  been  beautifully  sung  by  the  vocalists,  the  real  business  of  the 
evening  commences.  The  usual  loyal  toasts  having  been  given,  the  noble 
chairman  rises,  and  after  passing  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  places  his 
thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat,  gives  a  short  preparatory  cough, 
accompanied  by  a  vacant  stare  round  the  room,  and  commences  as  follows  : 
"My  Lords  and  Gentlemen: — It  is  with  feelings  of  mingled  pleasure 
and  regret  that  I  appear  before  you  this  evening  :  of  pleasure,  to  find  that 
this  excellent  and  world-wide-known  society  is  in  so  promising  a  condition  ; 
and  of  regret,  that  you  have  not  chosen  a  worthier  chairman ;  in  fact,  one 
who  is  more  capable  than  myself  of  dealing  with  a  subject  of  such  vital  im- 
portance as  this.  (Loud  cheers.)  But,  although  I  may  bo  unworthy  of  the 
honor,  I  am  proud  to  state  that  I  have  been  a  subscriber  to  this  society 
from  its  commencement;  feeling  sure  that  nothing  can  tend  more  to  the 
advancement  of  civilization,  social  reform,  fireside  comfort,  and  domestic 
economy  among  the  Cannibals,  than  the  diffusion  of  blankets  and  top-boots. 
(Tremendous  cheering,  which  lasts  for  several  minutes.)  Here  in  this 
England  of  ours,  which  is  an  island  surrounded  by  water,  as  I  suppose  you 
all  know — or,  as  our  great  poet  so  truthfully  and  beautifully  expresses  the 
Barae  fact,  'England  bound  in  by  the  triumphant  sea* — what,  down  the 
long  vista  of  year.s,  have  conduo'd  more  to  our  successes  in  arms,  and  arts, 
and  song,  than  blankets?  Inde^'d  I  never  gaze  u[)on  a  blanket  without  my 
thoughts  reverting  fondly  to  the  days  of  my  early  childhood.  Where 
should  we  all  have  boon  now  but  for  those  warm  and  (li'ocy  coverings? 


THE  CHARITY  DINNER.  327 


My  Lords  and  Gentlemen !  Our  first  and  tender  memories  are  all 
associated  with  blankets :  blankets  when  in  our  nurses'  arms,  blankets 
in  our  cradles,  blankets  in  our  cribs,  blankets  to  our  French  bedsteads  in 
our  school-days,  and  blankets  to  our  marital  four-posters  now.  Therefore,  I 
say,  it  becomes  our  bounden  duty  as  men — and,  with  feelings  of  pride,  I  add 
as  Englishmen — to  initiate  the  untutored  savage,  the  wild  and  somewhat  un- 
cultivated denizen  of  the  prairie,  into  the  comfort  and  warmth  of  blankets; 
and  to  supply  him,  as  far  as  practicable^  ;^'ith  those  reasonable,  seasonablej 
luxurious  and  useful  appendages.  At  s'jch  a  moment  a?  tliis,  the  lines  oi 
another  poet  strike  familiarly  upon  the  ear.  Let  me  see,  they  are  some- 
thing like  this — ah — ah — 

"  Blankets  have  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  breast, 
And  to — to  do — a — " 

I  forget  the  rest.     (Loud  cheers.) 

"  My  Lords  aijd  Gentlemen  !  I  will  not  trespass  on  your  patience  by 
making  any  further  remarks;  knowing  how  incompetent  I  am — no,  no! 
I  don't  mean  that — knowing  how  incompetent  you  all  are — no  !  I  don't 
mean  that  either — but  you  all  /^.y^r  what  I  mean.  Like  the  ancient 
Roman  lawgiver,  I  am  in  a  paoiiliar  position ;  for  the  fact  is  I  cannot 
sit  down — I  mean  to  say,  that  I  cannot  sit  down  without  saying  that,  if 
there  ever  was  an  institution,  it  is  this  institution ;  and  therefore,  I  beg  to 
propose,  '  Prosperity  to  the  Society  for  the  Distribution  of  Blankets  and 
Top-Boots  among  the  Natives  of  the  Cannibal  Islands.'  " 

The  toast  having  been  cordially  responded  to,  his  lordship  calls  upon 
Mr.  Duffer,  the  secretary,  to  read  the  report.  Whereupon  that  gentle- 
man, who  is  of  a  bland  and  oily  temperament,  and  whose  eyes  are  con- 
cealed by  a  pair  of  green  spectacles,  produces  the  necessary  document,  and 
reads  in   the  orthodox  manner^- 

"  Thirtieth  Half-yearly  Report  of  the  Society  for  the  Distribution  of 
Blankets  and  Top-Boots  to  the  Natives  of  the  Cannibal  Islands." 

The  reading  concluded,  the  secretary  resumes  his  seat  amid  hearty  ap- 
plause which  continues  until  Mr.  Alderman  Gobbleton  rises,  and,  in  a 
somewhat  lengthy  and  discursive  speech — in  which  the  phrases,  *  the  Cor- 
poration of  the  City  of  London,'  'suit  and  service,'  'ancient  guild,'  'liber* 
ties  and  privileges,'  and  'Court  of  Common  Council,'  figure  frequently — 
states  that  he  agrees  with  everything  the  noble  chairman  has  said  ;  and 
has,  moreover,  never  listened  to  a  more  comprehensive  and  exhaustive 
document  than  the  one  just  read  ;  which  is  calculated  to  satisfy  even  the 
most  obtuse  and  hard-headed  of  individuals. 


328  THE  CHARITY  DINNER. 


Gobbleton  is  a  great  man  iii  the  city.  He  has  either  been  lord  mayor, 
or  sheriff,  or  something  of  the  sort;  and,  as  a  few  words  of  his  go  a  long 
way  with  his  fi'iends  and  admirers,  his  remarks  are  very  favorably  received. 

"  Clever  man,  Gobbleton  !  "  says  a  common  councilman,  sitting  near  us, 
to  his  neighbor,  a  languid  swell  of  the  period. 

"  Ya-as,  vewy  !  Wemarkable  style  of  owatowy — gweat  fluency,"  replies 
the  other. 

But  attention,  if  you  please  ! — for  M.  Hector  de  Longuebeau,  the  great 
French  writer,  is  on  his  legs.  He  is  staying  in  England  for  a  short  time, 
to  become  acquainted  with  our  manners  and  customs. 

"  Milors  and  Gentlemans !  "  commences  the  Frenchman,  elevating  his 
eyebrows  and  shrugging  his  shoulders.  '  "  Milors  and  Gentlemans — You 
excellent  chairman,  M.  le  Baron  de  Mount-Stuart,  he  have  to  say  to  me, 
'  Make  de  toast.'  Den  I  say  to  him  I  have  no  toast  to  make ;  but  he  nudge 
my  elbow  very  soft,  and  say  dat  dere  is  one  toast  dat  nobody  but  von 
Frenchman  can  make  proper ;  and,  darefore,  wid  your  kind  permission,  I 
vill  make  de  toast.  '  De  breve te  is  de  sole  of  de  feet,"  as  your  great  philo- 
sophere.  Dr.  Johnson,  do  say,  in  dat  amusing  little  vork  of  his,  de  Pro- 
nouncing Dictionnaire;  and,  darefore,  I  vill  not  say  ver  mocli  to  de  point. 
Ven  I  was  a  boy,  about  so  moch  tall,  and  used  for  to  promenade  the  streets 
of  Marseilles  et  of  Rouen,  vid  no  feet  to  put  onto  my  shoe,  I  nevare  to 
have  expose  dat  dis  day  vould  to  have  arrive.  I  was  to  begin  de  vorld  as 
von  garcon — or  what  you  call  in  dis  countrie  von  vaitaire  in  a  cafe — 
vere  I  vork  ver  hard,  vid  no  habillements  at  all  to  put  onto  myself, 
and  vor  little  food  to  eat,  excep'  von  old  bleu  blouse  vat  vas  give 
to  me  by  de  proprietaire,  just  for  to  keep  myself  fit  to  be  showed  at;  but, 
tank  goodness,  tings  dey  have  change  ver  moch  for  me  since  dat  time  and 
I  have  rose  myself,  seulament  par  mon  Industrie  ct  perseverance,  (Loud 
cheers.)  Ah !  mes  amis  !  ven  I  hear  to  myself  de  flowing  speech,  de  oration 
magnifique  of  you  Lor'  Maire,  Monsieur  Gobbledown,  I  feel  dat  it  is  von 
groat  privilege  for  von  stranger  to  sit  at  de  same  table,  and  to  eat  de  same 
food,  a.s  dat  grand,  dat  majestique  man,  who  are  de  terreur  of  de  voleurs 
and  de  brigands  of  de  metropolis ;  and  who  is  also,  I  for  to  suppose,  a  halter- 
man  and  do  chief  of  you  common  scoundrel.  Milors  and  gentlemans,  I 
foci  dat  I  can  perspire  to  no  grcatare  honncur  dan  to  be  von  common 
Bcoundrelman  myself;  but  helas !  dat  plassir  are  not  for  mc,  as  I  arc  not 
freeman  of  your  groat  city,  not  von  liveryman  servant  of  von  of  you  com- 
pagnies  joint-stock.  But  I  must  not  forgot  do  toast.  Milors  and  (Jontlo- 
mans  1  Do  immortal  Shakispearo  he  have  write,  '  Do  ding  of  beauty  are 
de  joy  for  nevermore.'     It  is  de  ladies  who  arc  de  toast.     Vat  is  more  en- 


PRAYERS  OF  CHILDREN. 


329 


trancing  dan  de  charmante  smile,  de  soft  voice,  de  vinking  eye  of  de  beau- 
tiful lady  !  It  is  de  ladies  who  do  sweeten  the  cares  of  life.  It  is  de  ladies 
who  are  de  guiding  stars  of  our  existence.  It  is  de  ladies  who  do  cheer 
but  not  inebriate,  and,  darefore,  vid  all  homage  to  dere  sex,  de  toast  dat  I 
have  to  propose  is,  '  De  Ladies  !     God  bless  dem  all ! '  " 

And  the  little  Frenchman  sits  down  amid  a  perfect  tempest  of  cheers. 

A  few  more  toasts  are  given,  the  list  of  subscriptions  is  read,  a  vote  of 
chankis  is  passed  to  the  noble  chairman ;  and  the  Fifteenth  Annual  Festival 
of  the  Society  for  the  Distribution  of  Blankets  and  Top-Boots  among  the 
Natives  of  the  Cannibal  Islands  is  at  an  end. 


PBA  YERS  OF  CHILDREN. 


^N  the  quiet  nursery  chambers, — 
Snowy  pillows  yet  unpressed- 
See  the  forms  of  little  children 
Kneeling,    white  robed,    for 

irest. 
All  in  quiet  nursery  '-hambers, 
While  the  dusky  shadows  creep, 
Hear  the  voices  of  the  children  ; 
"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

In  the  meadow  an<l  the  mountain 
Calmly  shine  the  Winter  stars, 

But  across  the  glistening  lowlands 
Stand  the  moonlight's  silver  bars. 

In  the  silence  and  the  darkness, 
Darkness  growing  still  more  deep, 


'   Listen  to  the  litt'e  children, 

I       Praying  God  their  souls  to  keep. 

their      "  If  we  die  " — so  pray  the  children, 
I       And  the  mother's  head  droops  low, 
One  from  out  her  fold  is  sleeping 

Deep  beneath  the  winter's  snow — 
"  Take  our  souls ;" — and  past  the  casement 

Flits  a  gleam  of  crystal  light. 

Like  the  trailing  of  his  garments, 

Walking  evermore  in  white. 

Little  souls  that  stand  expectant, 

Listening  at  the  gates  of  life, 

Hearing,  far  away  the  murmur 

\      Of  the  tumult  and  the  strife, 


330 


LITTLE  MARGERY. 


We  who  fight  beneath  those  banners, 
Meeting  ranks  of  foemen  there, 

Find  c  deeper,  broader  meaning 
In  your  simple  vesper  prayer. 

When  your  hand  shall  grasp  this  standard 
Which  to-day  you  watch  from  far. 

When  your  deeds  shall  shape  the  conflict 
In  this  universal  war : 

Pray  to  Him,  the  God  of  battles. 
Whose  strong  eyes  can  never  sleep, 


In  the  warring  of  temptation, 
Firm  and  true  your  souls  to  keep. 

When  the  combat  ends,  and  slowly 

Clears  the  smoke  from  out  the  skies ; 
When,  far  down  the  purple  distance, 

All  the  noise  of  battle  dies ; 
When  the  last  night's  solemn  shadow 

Settles  down  on  you  and  me, 
May  the  love  that  never  faileth 

Take  our  souls  eternally  ! 


LITTLE  MARGEMY. 


vr: 


^.' 


MRS.  SALLTK  J.  V'HITF-: 


r;KIiIN(},  whit''  robed,  hlcepy  t>.yi:H, 
iV;(!ping  through  the  tangled  hair, 
V^J.*^'   "  Now  I  lay  mo — I'm  ho  tired — 
(to'w  Aunty,  God  knowH  all  myjirayor; 

•%  He'll  keep  little  Margery." 


Watching  by  the  little  bed. 
Dreaming  of  tlio  coming  years, 

Mn(di  I  wonder  what  they'll  bring, 
\l')Ht  of  HtiiileH  or  most  of  tears, 
To  my  littlo  Margery. 


LEARNING  TO  PRAY. 


331 


Will  the  simple,  trusting  faith 
Shining  in  the  childish  breast 

Always  be  so  clear  and  bright? 
Will  God  always  know  the  rest, 
Loving  little  Margery? 

As  the  weary  years  go  on, 
And  you  are  a  child  no  more, 

But  a  woman,  trouble-worn, 

Will  it  come — this  faith  of  yours — 
Blessing  you,  dear  Margery  ? 

If  your  sweetest  love  shall  fail, 
And  your  idol  turn  to  dust. 

Will  you  bow  to  meet  the  blow. 
Owning  all  God's  ways  are  just? 
Can  you,  sorrowing  Margery  ? 

Should  your  life-path  grow  so  dark 
You  can  see  no  steps  ahead, 

Will  you  lay  your  hand  in  His, 
Trusting  by  him  to  be  led 
To  the  light,  my  Margery  ? 


Will  the  woman,  folding  down 
Peaceful  hands  across  her  liieast, 

Whisper,  with  her  old  belief, 

"  God,  my  Father,  knows  the  rest, 
He'll  take  tired  Margery  ?" 

True,  my  darling,  life  is  long. 
And  its  ways  are  dark  and  dim ; 

But  God  knows  the  path  you  tread ; 
I  can  leave  you  safe  with  Him, 
Always,  little  Margery. 

He  will  keep  your  childish  faith, 
Throi:.;h  your  weary  woman  years, 

ShiniuT:  ever  strong  and  bright, 
Never  Ci.mmed  by  saddest  tears, 
Trusting  little  Margery. 

You  have  taught  a  lesson  sweet 
To  a  yearning,  restless  soul ; 

We  pray  in  snatches,  ask  a  part, 
But  God  above  us  knows  the  whole, 
And  answers,  baby  Margery. 


LEARNING  TO  PRAY. 


«^^ 


MARY    M.    DODGE. 


'XEELING  fair  in  the  twilight  gray, 
A  beautiful  child  was  trying  to 
r^  pray ; 

His  cheek  on  his  mother's  knee, 
His  bare  little  feet  half  hidden. 
His  smile  still  coming  unbidden. 
And  his  heart  brimful  of  glee. 

"  I  want  to  laugh.     Is  it  naughty  ?     Say, 

0  mamma  !  I've  had  such  fun  to-day 

1  hardly  can  say  my  prayers. 

I  don't  feel  just  like  praying  ; 

I  want  to  be  out-doors  playing. 

And  run,  all  undressed,  down  stairs. 

"  I  can  see  the  flowers  in  the  garden  bed, 

Shining  so  pretty,  and  sweet,  and  red ; 

And  Sammy  is  swinging,  I  guess. 
Oh  !  everything  is  so  fine  out  there, 
I  want  to  put  it  all  in  the  prayer, — 

Do  you  mean  I  c"*«  do  it  by  '  Yes  ?'  ^ 


"  When  I  say,  '  Now  I  lay  me, '-word  for  word 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  nobody  heard. 

Would  '  Thank  you  .1  ar  God,'  be  right? 


He  gave  me  my  mammy, 
And  papa,  and  Sammy, — 
0  mamma  !  you  nodded  I  might.' 


332 


A  GLASS  OF  COLD  WATER. 


Clasping  his  hands  and  hiding  his  face, 

Unconsciously  yearning  for  help  and  grace, 

The  little  one  now  began  ; 

Hia  mother's  nod  and  sanction  sweet 
Had  led  him  close  to  the  dear  Lord's  feet, 

And  his  words  like  music  ran : 

"  Thank  you  for  making  this  home  so  nice. 

The  flowers,  and  my  two  white  mice, — 

I  wish  I  could  keep  right  on  ; 

I  thank  you,  too,  for  every  day — 
Only  I'm  most  too  glad  to  pray, 

Dear  God,  I  think  I'm  done. 


"  Now,  mamma,  rock  me — just  a  minute — ■ 
And  sing  the  hymn  with  '  darling  *  in  it. 
I  wish  I  could  say  my  prayers  ! 

When  I  get  big,  I  know  I  can. 

Oh  I  won't  it  be  nice  to  be  a  man, 
And  stay  all  night  down  stairs !" 

The  mother,  singing,  clasped  him  tight. 

Kissing  and  cooing  her  fond  "  Good-nightv" 

And  treasured  his  every  word. 
For  well  she  knew  that  the  artless  joy 
And  love  of  her  precious,  innocent  bo  ;, 

Were  a  prayer  that  her  Lord  had  heard. 


NOW  I  LAY  ME  DOWN  TO  SLEEP. 


iJj^OLDEN  head  so  lowly  bending, 
Little  feet  so  white  and  bare. 
Dewy  eyes,  half  shut,  half  opened, 
Lisping  out  her  evening  prayer. 

i"  Now  I  lay," — repeat  it,  darling — 
"  Lay  me,"  lisped  the  tiny  lips 
Of  my  daughter,  kneeling,  bending 
O'er  the  folded  finger  tips. 

"  Down  to  sleep,"-"  To  sleep,"  she  murmured. 

And  the  curly  head  bent  low  ; 
"  I  pray  the  Lord,"  I  gently  added, 
"  You  can  say  it  all,  I  know." 

"  Pray  the  Lord,"  the  sound  came  faintly, 
Fainter  still — "  My  soul  to  keep  ," 

Th'.n  the  tirf;il  heart  fairly  nodded. 
And  the  child  was  fast  asleep. 


But  the  dewy  eyes  half  opened 

When  I  clasped  her  to  my  breast. 
And  the  dear  voice  softly  whispered, 
"  Mamma,  God  knows  all  the  rest." 

Oh,  the  trusting,  sweet  conliding 
Of  the  child-heart !  would  that  I 

Thus  might  trust  my  Heavenly  .Father, 
He  who  hears  my  feeblest  crJ^ 

0,  the  rapture,  sweet,  unbroken. 

Of  the  soul  who  wrote  that  prayer! 

Children's  myriad  voices  floating 
Up  to  Heaven,  record  it  there. 

If,  of  all  that  has  been  written, 

I  could  choose  what  might  bo  mine. 

It  should  be  that  child's  petition, 
Rising  to  the  throne  divine. 


A  GLASS  OF  COLD   WATER. 


ARRINGTON. 

%,Wt^^  

f^y^lIERE  ifi  tho  liquor  which  God  the  Eternal  brews  for  all  his  chilfl- 
rrjii?  Not  in  the  simmering  .still,  ovor  smoky  firos  ch(jk(>(l  with 
})oi3onouH  gasos,  surroiUKh.'d  with  tho  st<u)('h  of  sickoniug  odors, 
and  rank  corruptions,  doth  your  Father  in  heaven  prepare  tho 
precious  essence  of  liic,  th(!  pure  cold  water.     But  in  the  green 


FATIIEPs  TAKE  MY  HAND." 


33J 


glade  and  grassy  dell,  where  the  red  deer  wanders,  and  the  child  loves  to 
play ;  there  God  brews  it.  And  down,  low  down  in  the  lowest  valleys, 
where  the  fountains  murmur  and  the  rills  sing ;  and  high  upon  the  tall 
mountain  tops,  where  the  naked  granite  glitters  like  gold  in  the  sun ;  where 
the  storm-cloud  broods,  and  the  thunder-storms  crash ;  and  away  far  out 
on  the  wide  wild  sea,  where  the  hurricane  howls  music,  and  the  big  waves 
roar ;  the  chorus  sweeping  the  march  of  God :  there  he  brews  it — that 
beverage  of  life  and  health-giving  water.  And  everywhere  it  is  a  thing  of 
beauty,  gleaming  in  the  dew-drop ;  singing  in  the  summer  rain ;  shining  in 
the  ice-gems  till  the  leaves  all  seem  to  turn  to  living  jewels;  spreading  a 
golden  veil  over  the  setting  sun ;  or  a  white  gauze  around  the  midnight 
moon. 

Sporting  in  the  cataract;  sleeping  in  the  glacier;  dancing  in  the  hail 
shower ;  folding  its  bright  snow  curtains  softly  about  the  wintry  world ; 
and  waving  the  many-colored  iris,  that  seraph's  zone  of  the  sky,  whose 
warp  is  the  rain-drop  of  earth,  whose  woof  is  the  sunbeam  of  heaven ;  all 
checkered  over  with  celestial  flowers,  by  the  mystic  hand  of  refraction. 

Still  always  it  is  beautiful,  that  life-giving  water ;  no  poison  bubbles  on 
its  brink ;  its  foam  brings  not  madness  and  murder ;  no  blood  stains  its 
liquid  glass  ;  pale  widows  and  starving  orphans  weep  no  burning  tears  in 
its  depth ;  no  drunken,  shrieking  ghost  from  the  grave  curses  it  in  the 
words  of  eternal  despair ;  speak  on,  my  friends,  would  you  exchange  for  it 
demon's  drink,  alcohol ! 


FA  THER,  TAKE  MY  HAND." 


HENRY    N.    COBB. 


|^||||HE  way  is  dark,  my  Father !    Cloud 
on  cloud 
-.    Is  gathering  thickly  p'er  my  head, 
and  loud 
The  thunders  roar  above  me.     See, 

I  stand 
Like  one  bewildered!  Father,  take 

my  hand, 
And  through  the  gloom 
Lead  safely  home 
Thy  child ! 

The  day  goes  fast,  my  Father !  and  the  night 


Is  drawing  darklydown.  My  faithless  sight 
Sees  ghostly  visions.  Fears,  a  spectral  band, 
Encompass  me.     0  Father  1  take  my  hand. 

And  from  the  night 

Lead  up  to  light 
Thy  child! 

The  way  is  long,  my  Father !  and  my  soul 
Longs  for  the  rest  and  quiet  of  the  goal ;        , 
TVTiile    yet  I  journey    through   this   weary 

land. 
Keep  me  from  wandering.     Father,  take  my 

hand  ; 


334 


THE  GRACIOUS  ANSWER. 


Quickly  and  straight 
Lead  to  heaven's  gate 
Thy  child ! 

The  path   is  rough,  my  Father!     Many  a 

thorn 
Has  pierced  me ;    and   my  weary  feet,  all 

torn 
And  bleeding,  mark   the    way.       Yet  thy 

command 
Bids  me  press  forward.     Father,  take  my 
hand ; 

Then  safe  and  blest, 
Lead  up  to  rest 
Thy  child  1 


The  throng  is  great,  my  Father !     Many  a 

doubt 
•And  fear  and  danger  compass  me  about ; 
And  foes  opprei^s  me  sore.     I  cannot  stand 
Or  go  alone.     0  Father !  take  my  hand, 
And  through  the  throng 
Lead  safe  along 
Thy  child .' 

The  cross  is  heavy,  Fatlier  !     I  have  borne 
It  long,  and  still  do  bear  it.     Let  my  worn 
And  fainting  spirit  rise  to  that  blest  land 
Where  crowns  are  given.     Father,  take  my 
hand; 

And  reaching  down 
Lead  to  the  crown 
Thy  child! 


THE  GRACIOUS  ANSWER. 


HENRY    N.    COBB. 


VryHE  way  is  dark,  my  child!  but  leads 
Ij^        to  light. 

i*^&Y  I  would  not  always  have  thee  walk 
!•  by  sight. 

My  dealings  now  thou  canst  not  un- 
derstand. 
I  meant  it  so ;  but  I  will  take  thy 

hand, 
And  through  the  gloom 
Lead  safely  home 
My  child ! 

The  day  goes  fa.'^t,  my  child !      But  is  the 

night 
Darker  to  me  than  day  ?     In  me  is  light ! 
Keep  close  to  me,  and  every  spectral  band 
Df  fears  shall  vanish.     I  will  take  thy  hand, 
And  through  the  night 
Lead  up  to  light 
My  child! 

The  way  is  long,  my  child !    But  it  shall  be 
Not  on*^!  step  long^^r  tJian  is  best  lor  thee ; 
^d  thou  shalt  know,  at  last,    when  thou 
abalt  stand 


Safe  at  the  goal,  how  I  did  take  thy  hand, 

And  quick  and  straight 

Lead  to  heaven's  gate 

My  child ! 

The  path  is  rough,  my  child  !    But  oh  !    how 

sweet 
Will  be  the  rest,  for  weary  pilgrims  meet. 
When  thou  shalt  reach  the  borders  of  tliat 

land 
To  which  I  lead  thee,  as  I  take  thy  hand. 
And  safe  and  blest 
With  me  shall  rest 
My  child  ! 

The  throng  is  groat,  my  child  !     HuL  at  thy 

side 
Thy  Father  walks:  tlii'ii  ln'  not  terrified. 
For   T   am   with    tlici:;    will    liiy  foes   cowe 

mand 
To  let  theo  freely  ]'a.ss  ;  will  take  thy  hand, 
And  through  the  throng 
Lead  safe  along 
My  child! 


THE  FRENCHMAN  AND  THE  RATS. 


335 


The  cross  is  heavy,  child !     Yet  there  was 

One 
Who  bore  a  heavier  for  thee  ;   my  Son, 
My  well-beloved.     For  him  bear  thine;  and 

stand 


With  him  at  last;  and,   from  thy   Father's 
hand. 

Thy  cross  laid  down, 
Receive  a  crown. 
My  child! 


TEE  FRENCHMAN  AND  THE  RA  TS. 


r^  FRENCHMAN   once,   who    was   a 
merry  wight, 
^    Passing  to  town  from  Dover,  in  the 
night. 
Near    the     roadside    an     alehouse 

chanced  to  spy. 
And  being  rather  tired  as  well  as 
dry. 
Resolved  to  enter ;  but  first  he  took  a  peep, 
In  hopes  a  supper  he  might  get,  and  cheap. 
He  enters  :  "  Hallo  !  Garcon,  if  you  please. 
Bring  me  a  leetel  bit  of  bread  and  cheese. 
And   hallo  !  Garcon,    a  pot  of  porter,  too !" 

he  said, 
'  Vich  I  shall  take,  and  den  myself  to  bed." 
His  supprr  done,  some  scraps  of  cheese  were 

left. 
Which  our  poor  Frenchman,  thinking  it  no 

theft. 
Into  his  pocket  put ;  then  slowly  crept 


To  wished-for  bed ;  but  not  a  wink  he  slept — 
For  on  the  floor  some  sacks  of  flour  were  laid, 
To  which  the  rats  a  nightly  visit  paid. 
Our   hero,  now   undressed,  popped  out   the 

light. 
Put  on  his  cap   and  bade  the  world  good- 
night ; 
But  first  his  breeches,  which  contained  the 

fare. 
Under  his  pillow  he  had  placed  with  care. 
Sans  ccremonie,  soon  the  rats  all  ran. 
And  on  the  flour-sacks  greedily  began  ; 
At  which   they    gorged    themselves;    then 

smelling  round,  -^-^ 

Under  the  pillow  soon  the  cheese  they  found ; 
And  while  at  this  they  all  regaling  sat, 
Their  happy  jaws  disturbed  the  Frenchman's 

nap; 
Who,  half-awake,  cries  out,  "Hallo!  ballot 
Vat  is  dat  nibble  at  my  pillow  so  ? 


336 


DUNCAN  GRAY  CAM'  HERE  TO  WOO. 


Ah  !  'tis  one  big — one  very  big,  huge  rat ! 
/at  is  it  that  he  nibble — nibble  at?" 

in  vain  our  little  hero  sought  repose ; 

Jiometimes  the  vermin  galloped  o'er  his 
nose ; 

And  such  the  pranks  they  kept  up  all  the 
night, 

That  he,  on  end — antipodes  upright 

Brawling-aloud,  called  stoutly  for  a  light. 

•'  Hallo  !  Maison  !  Garcon,  I  say  ! 

Bring  me  the  bill  for  vat  I  have  to  pay  !" 

The  bill  was  brought,  and  to  his  great  sur- 
prise, 

Ten  shillings  was  the  charge  :  he  scarce  be- 
lieved his  eyes. 

With  eager  haste,  he  quickly  runs  it  o  er, 

And  every  time  he  viewed  it  thought  it 
more. 

'*  Vy,  zounds  and  zounds !"  he  cries,  "  I  sail 
no  pay ; 

Vat !  charge  ten  shelangs  for  what  I  have 
mange  ? 

A  leetel  sop  of  portar,  dis  vile  bed, 


V  are  all  de  rats  do  run  about  my  head  ?" 
"Plague  on   those  rats !  "  the  landlord  mut. 

tered  out ; 
"  I  wish,  upon  my  word,  that  I  could  mak* 

'em  scout: 
I'll  pay  him  well  that  can."    "Vat'e  dat  yoa 

say  ?" 
'•I'll  pay  him  well  that  can."     "  Attend  to 

me,  I  pray : 
Vill  you  dis  charge  forego,  vat  I  am  at, 
If  from  your  house  I  drive  away  de  rat  ?" 
"  With   all   my   heart,"   the  jolly  host  re- 
plies. 
"  Ecoutez,  done  ami ;"  the  Frenchman  cries. 
"  First  den — Regardez,  if  you  please, 
Bring  to  dis  spot  a  leetel  bread  and  cheese : 
Eh  bien !  a  pot  of  portar,  too  ; 
And  den  invite  de  rats  to  sup  vid  you : 
And  after  dat — no  matter  dey  be  villing — 
For  vat  dey  eat,  you  charge  dem  just  ten 

shelang  : 
And  I  am  sure,  ven  dey  behold  de  score, 
Dey'll  quit  your  house,  and  never  come  no 

more." 


'DUNCAN  GRAY  CAM'  HERE  TO  WOO, 


ROBERT 

5S|^feTTNCAN  Gray  cam'  here  to  woo— 
J^  11*1  ba  1  the  wooing  o't ! 

'.  .       ■'     On    blytlie   Yule   night  when  wo 

were  fu' — 
ti  Ha,  lia!  the  wooing  o't! 

J*     Maggie  coost  her  head  fu'  high, 
T     Looked  a.skl(!nt  and  unco  snoigli, 
Gart  j)Oor  Duncan  Htand  abeigli — 
Ha,  ba!  tbe  wooing  o't! 

Duncan  fleedn  d  and  Duncan  prayed — 

Ha,  lia!  tbe  wooing  o't  I 
M»;g  waH  df-af  a.s  Ailaa  craig — 

Ha,  ha!  tlio  wooing  o't! 
Dancan  sighed  bailh  oot  and  in, 
Gart  hi.")  cen  baith  blocr't  and  blin' 
Spake  o'  lowpin  o'er  a  linn — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't  1 


BURNS. 


Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide— 
Ha,  ha!  the  wooing  o't! 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't— 

Shall  I,  like  a  fulo,  quoth  he. 

For  a  bauglity  hizzie  dee  ? 

She  may  gae  to — Franco  for  me ! 
Ha,  ha !  the  wooing  o't! 

How  it  comes  let  doctorn  tell — 

Ha,  ha  I  the  wooing  o't  1 
Meg  grew  sick  aa  he  grew  well — 
Ila,  lia  !  the  wooing  o't ! 
Something  in  hor  bosom  wrings, — 
For  relief  a  fligh  sho  brings, — 
And  (),  lier  eon  they  sjyeak  sic  tliingnl 
Ila  lia!  the  wooing  o't ' 


AN  ORIENTAL  BEAUTY. 


SUNRISE  AT  SEA. 


337 


Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace — 

Duncan  could  na  be  her  death  : 

Ha,  ha!  the  wooing  o't ! 

Swelling  pity  smoored  his  wrath, 

Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case — 

Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baith, 

Ha,  ha !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Ha,  lia !  the  wooing  o't ! 

THE  HOME  OF  PEACE. 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


KNEW  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully 
curled 
Above  the  green  elms,  that  a  cottage 
was  near, 
And   I  said,   "If  there's  peace  to  be 
J«  found  in  the  world, 

T  A  heart  that  is  humble  might  hope 

for  it  here!" 

It  was  noon,  and  on  flowers  that  languished 

around 
In  silence,  reposed  the  voluptuous  bee  ; 
Every  leaf  was  at  rest,  and  I  heard  not  a 

sound 
But    the   woodpecker    tapping   the    hollow 

beech-tree. 


And  "  Here  in  this  lone  little  wood,"  I  ex- 
claimed, 
"  With  a  maid  who  was  lovely  to  soul  and 
to  eye  ; 
Who  would  blush  when  I  praised  her,  and 
weep  if  I  blamed, 
How  blest  could   I  live,   and   how   calm 
could  I  die ! 

"By  the  shade  of  yon  sumach,  whose  red 
berry  dips 
In  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  how  sweet  to 
recline, 
And  to  know  that  I  sighed  upon  innocent  lips. 
Which  had  never  been  sighed  on  by  any 
but  mine  1" 


SUNRISE  AT  SEA. 


W.  V.  KELLY. 


pOW  slowly  the  day  dawns,  yet  how  suddenly  the  sun  rises  !  Did 
you  ever  witness  a  sunrise  at  sea  on  a  calm  morning  ?  You  look 
out  of  your  port-hole  before  dawn  and  see  the  faintest  possible 
hint  of  daylight  yonder.  You  go  on  deck.  The  east  gives  a  pale 
promise  of  the  morning,  just  the  first  soft  glimmer  from  the  gates 
ajar  of  that  heavenly  chamber  whence  the  sun  will,  by-and- 
come  rejoicing.  A  low,  doubtful,  slowly-growing  light,  spreads 
encroaching  on  the  shadows  on  the  east.  The  sky  beds  itself  on  the 
dark  gray  sea,  with  a  deep  foundation  of  intense  dark  rich  orange,  and 
builds  upwards  with  gradations  of  yellow,  and  green,  and  colors  no  one 
could  name.  Infinite  changes  gently  succeed.  Miracles  of  transforma- 
tion, glory  passing  into  glory.     The  stars  fade  slowly,  blinking  at  the 


338 


SLEIGHING  SONG. 


increasing  light,  like  old  religions  dying  before  the  Gospel.  So  smooth  is 
the  water,  it  is  certain  that  when  the  sun  rises  above  the  horizon  he  will 
stand  with  his  feet  on  a  sea  of  burnished  glass.  The  clouds  have  bent  a 
triumphal  arch  over  the  place  of  his  coming,  and  one  broad  cloud  makes 
a  crimson  canopy  to  the  pavilion  which  awaits  the  king.  Graceful,  airy 
clouds  hover  like  spirits  that  expect  a  spectacle ;  shortly  they  put  on 
glorious  robes,  and  their  faces  are  bright,  as  if,  like  Moses,  in  some  lofty 
place,  they  had  seen  God  face  to  face :  the  meanest  tattered  cloud  that  lies 
waiting,  like  a  beggar,  at  the  gates  of  the  morning,  for  the  coming  of  the 
King  from  his  inaccessible  chambers  of  splendor,  is  dressed,  while  it  waits, 
in  glory  beside  which  the  apparel  of  princes  is  sordid  and  vile.  For  more 
than  an  hour,  a  long,  long  hour,  you  watch  the  elaborate  unfolding  pageant 
of  preparation  go  on  in  the  east.  With  a  trembling  hush  of  culminatiug 
wonder,  you  await  impatiently  the  grand  uprise  of  the  sun.  Will  he  ever 
come  ?  You  almost  doubt.  At  last,  when  the  ecstacy  of  expectation  has 
grown  intense,  a  thin,  narrow  flash  of  brilliant,  dazzling  firo  shoots  level 
along  the  sea,  swift  as  lightning.  Swiftly  it  rises  and  broadens  till,  in  one 
moment,  the  dusk  immensity  above  is  kindled  by  it ;  another  moment,  and 
the  far-off,  gloomy  west  sees  it;  in  another,  the  whole  heaven  feels  it ;  and 
yet  one  moment  more,  and  the  wide  circle  of  the  level  sea  is  molten  silver. 
It  is  done,  all  done.  The  thing,  so  long  preparing  and  approaching,  bursts 
into  completion.  The  day  is  full-blown  in  a  moment.  The  few  heavy 
piles  of  cloud  on  the  horizon,  look  like  castles  in  conflagration  and  consume 
away;  the  sun's  burning  gaze  scorches  from  the  rafters  of  the  sky  the 
light  cobwebs  of  mist  and  fleece ;  and  now  the  sun  has  the  clean  temple  of 
the  heavens  all  to  himself,  paved  with  silver,  domed  with  azure,  pillared 
with  hcrht. 


SLEIGHING  SONG. 


G.    W,    PETTEE. 


KpIN*  JLE,  jiiiglo,  clear  tlio  way, 
\^    Tis  tlio  inorry,  rnerry  Hloigli, 
,^;^^i^  Ah  it  Hwiflly  hcu'Ih  along 

Hear  the  hiirHt  of  happy  song, 
See  the  gleam  of  glanccH  bright, 
Flaflhing  o'er  the  pathway  white. 
Jingle,  jingle,  pawt  it  Hif^H, 
Sending  flhafUt  from  Ijoodod  eyes,- 


Rogiiish  archors,  I'll  ho  boiinil, 
Litth;  liooding  who  they  wound  ; 
See  them,  with  capricious  iiraiiks, 
Ploughing  now  tho  drifUvl  hanks; 
Jingle,  jingle,  mid  the  gloo 
Who  among  them  cares  for  nie? 
.Tingle,  jingle,  on  they  go, 
Capes  and  hoiinet.s  white  with  snow, 


JIM. 


339 


Not  a  single  robe  they  fold 
To  protect  them  from  the  cold  ; 
Jingle,  jingle,  mid  the  storm, 
Fun  and  frolic  keep  them  warm  ; 
Jingle,  jingle,  down  the  hills. 


O'er  the  meadows,  past  the  mills. 
Now  'tis  slow,  and  now  'tis  fast; 
Winter  will  not  always  last. 
Jingle,  jingle,  clear  the  way, 
'Tis  the  merry,  merry  sleigh. 


JIM. 


F.    BRET    HARTE. 


AY  there !     P'r'aps 
Some  on  you  chaps 
Might  know  Jim  Wild? 

Well, — no  offence: 

Thar  aint  no  sense 
In  gittin'  riled ! 

Jim  was  ray  chum 
Up  on  the  Bar : 

That's  why  I  come 
Down  from  up  thar, 

Lookin'  for  Jim. 

Thank  ye,  sir !  you 

Ain't  of  that  crew, — 
Blest  if  you  are ! 

Money  ? — Not  much : 
That  ain't  my  kind  ; 

I  ain't  no  such. 

Rum  ? — I  don't  mind, 
Seem'  it's  you. 


Well,  this  yer  Jim, 
Did  you  know  him  ? — 
Jess  'bout  your  size  ; 
Same  kind  of  eyes ! — 
Well  that  is  strange : 
Why  it's  two  year 
Since  he  come  here, 
Sick,  for  a  change. 

Well,  here's  to  us ; 

Eh? 
The  deuce  you  say ! 

Dead? 
That  little  cuts  ? 

■What  makes  you  stat;- 
You  over  thar  ? 
Can't  a  man  drop 
's  glass  in  yer  shop 
But  you  must  rar7 


340 


THE  MINUET. 


It  wouldn't  take 
Derned  much  to  break 
You  and  your  bar. 

Dead! 
Poor — little — Jim  ! 
— Why  there  was  me, 
Jones,  and  Bob  Lee, 
Harry  and  Ben, — 
No-account  men  : 
Then  to  take  him/ 


Well,  thar—    Good  by,- 
No  more,  sir, — I — 

Eh? 
What's  that  you  say  ? — 
Why,  dern  it ! — sho ! — 
No  ?    Yes !    By  Jo  ! 

Sold! 
Sold  !     Why  you  limb, 
You  onery, 

Derned  old 
Long-legged  Jim  ! 


THi:  MINUET. 


MRS.    MARY   M.    DODGE. 


^^RANDMA  told  me  all  about  it, 
i^^K     Told  me  so  I  couldn't  doubt  it, 
'^j^^        How  she  danced — my  grandma 

^^  danced — 

¥  Long  ago. 

I      How  she  held  her  pretty  head, 

How  her  dainty  skirt  she  spread, 

How  she  turned  her  little  toes — 

Smiling  little  human  rose ! — 
Long  ago. 

Grandma's  hair  was  bright  and  sunny ; 
Dimpled  cheeks,  too — ah,  how  funny ! 
Really  quite  a  pretty  girl. 

Long  ago. 
Bless  her !  why  she  wears  a  cap, 
Grandma  does,  and  takes  a  nap 
Every  single  day  ;  and  yet 
Grandma  danced  the  minuet 

Long  ago. 

Now  she  sits  there,  rocking,  rocking, 
Alway.s  knitting  grandpa's  stocking — 
(Every  girl  was  taught  to  knit 
Long  ago.) 
Yet  her  figure  is  so  neat. 
And  her  way  so  Htaid  and  sweet, 
I  can  almost  see  her  now 
Banding  to  her  partner's  bow, 
Long  ago. 


Grandma  says  our  modern  jumping. 
Hopping,  rushing,  whirling,  bumping. 
Would  have  shocked  the  gentle  folk 
Long  ago. 
No — they  moved  with  stately  grace. 
Everything  in  proper  place, 
Gliding  slowly  forward,  then 
Slowly  courtesying  back  again, 
Long  ago. 

Modern  ways  are  quite  alarming. 
Grandma  says;  but  boys  were  charming- 
Girls  and  boys,  I  mean,  of  course — 

Long  ago- 
Bravely  modest,  grandly  shy — 
What  if  all  of  us  should  try 
Just  to  feel  like  those  who  met 
In  the  graceful  minuet 

Long  ago '' 

With  the  minuet  in  fiishion. 
Who  could  fly  into  a  passion? 

All  would  w<'ar  the  calm  thoy  wore 
Long  ago. 
In  time  to  come,  if  I  perchance, 
Should  tell  my  grandchild  of  our  dance, 
I  should  really  like  to  say, 
"  We  did  it,  dear,  in  some  such  way 
Long  ago." 


EARLY  RISING. 


m 


THE  LOST  DOLL. 


C.    KINGSLEY. 


fT®  ONCE  had  a  sweet  little  doll,  dears, 
J^        The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world ; 
'^     Iler  cheeks  were  so  red  and  so  white, 
i  dears, 

X        And  her  hair  was  so   charmingly 
¥  curled, 

I     But  I  lost  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 
As  I  played  on  the  heath  one  day  ; 
And  I  cried  for  her  more  than  a  week,  dears, 
But  I  never  could  find  where  she  lay. 


I  found  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 

As  I  played  on  the  heath  one  u'ay  ; 
Folks  say  she  is  terribly  changed,  deara, 

For  her  paint  is  all  washed  away, 
And   her  arm's  trodden  off  by  the   cows, 
dears. 

And  her  hair's  not  the  least  bit  curled  ; 
Yet  for  old  times'  sake,  she  is  still,  dears. 

The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world. 


EABLY  BISING. 


tK 


(<  ^^^OD  bless  the  man  who  first  invented 

\  '.]         So  Sancho  Panza  said,  and  so  say 
I; 
And  bless  him,  also,  that  he  didn't 
keep 
Ilis    great    discovery  to    himself, 
nor  try 
To  make  it — as  the  lucky  fellow  might — 
A  close  monopoly  by  patent-right ! 

Yes, — bless  the  man  who  first  invented  sleep, 

(I  really  can't  avoid  the  iteration  ;) 
But  blast  the   man   with   curses   loud  and 
deep, 
Whate'er   the    rascal's    name    or    age  or 
station, 
"Who  first  invented,  and  went  round  advising, 
That  artificial  cut-off, — Early  Rising  ! 

"  Rise   with  the  lark,  and  with  the  lark  to 
bed," 
Observes  some  solemn,  sentimental  owl ; 
Maxims  like  these  are  very  cheaply  said  ; 

But,  ere  you  make  yourself  a  fool  or  fowl, 
Pray  just  inquire  about  his  rise  and  fall. 
And  whether  larks  have  any  beds  at  all  I 
23 


JOHN   G.     SAXE. 


"  The  time  for  honest  folks  to  be  abed 
Is  in  the  morning,  if  I  reason  right; 

And  he  who  cannot  keep  his  precious  head 
Upon  his  pillow  till  it's  fairly  light. 

And  so  enjoy  his  forty  morning  winks, 

Is  up  to  knavery,  or  else — he  drinks  ! 

Thomson,  who  sung  about  the  "  Seasons," 
said 
It  was  a  glorious  thing  to  rise  in  season  ; 
But  then  he  said  it — lying — in  his  bed, 

At  ten  o'clock,  a.  m., — the  very  reason 
He  wrote  so  charmingly.     The  simple  fact  is. 
His    preaching    wasn't    sanctioned   by   his 
practice. 

'Tis  doubtless,  well  to  be  sometimes  awake, — 

Awake  to  duty,  and  awake  to  truth, — 
But  when,  alas  !    a  nice  review  we  take 
Of  our  best  deeds  and  days,   we  find,  m 
sooth. 
The  hours  that  leave  the  slightest  cause  to 

weep 
Are  those  we  passed  in  childhood,  or  asleep  I 

'Tis  beautiful  to  leave  the  world  awhile 
For  the  soft  visions  of  the  gentle  night ; 


342 


HIAWATHA'S  JOURNEY. 


And  free,  at  last,  from  mortal  care  or  guile, 

To  live  as  only  in  the  angel's  sight. 
In  sleep's  sweet  realm  so  cosily  shut  in, 
Where,  at  the  worst,  we  only  dream  of  sin  ! 

So  let  us  sleep,  and  give  the  Maker  praise. 
I  like  the  lad  who,  when  his  father  thought 


To   clip   his  morning    nap  by  hackneyed 
phrase 
Of  vagrant  worm  by  earlj'^  songster  caught, 
Cried,   "Served  him  right! — it's  not  at    all 
surprising  ; 
The   worm  was    jiunished,    sir,  for   earijf 
rising  I'' 


HIAWATHA'S  JOURNEY. 


II.   W.   LONGFELLOW, 


^    into  the  bow  the  cord  is, 
S<)  unto  the  man  is  woman, 
^     Though  she  bends  him,  she  obe5's 
Z  him, 

Though   she   draws  him,   yet   she 
follows, 
Useless  one  without  the  other !  " 


Like  a  fire  upon  the  hearth-stone 
Is  a  neighbor's  homely  dauglitor, 
Like  the  starlight  or  the  moonlight 
Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers  !" 

Thus  dissuading  spake  Nokomis, 
And  my  Hiawatha  answered 


"f3^w: 


ThuH  the  youthful  Hiawatha, 
Baid  within  himself  and  pondered. 
Much  [lorplexod  by  variouR  feelings, 
LintlfMH,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
l)r';iriiing  ntill  of  Minn'-liaha, 
Of  \\x<:  lovr-jy  L;iuj;hing  Water. 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacolahs. 

"  Wed  a  maiden  of  yrmr  people," 
Warning  naid  the  old  Nokomin  ; 
"  Go  not  eastward,  go  not  woHtward, 
For  a  stranger,  whom  we  know  not ! 


Only  this :    "  Dear  old  Nokomis, 
Very  pleasant  is  the  firelight, 
But  I  like  tlie  starlight  better, 
Better  do  I  like  the  moonligntr 

Gravely  then  said  old  Nokoinii 
"  Bring  not  hero  an  idle  maiden, 
Bring  not  liere  a  useless  woman, 
llan-ls  utinkillftil.  f<el  unwilling; 
Bring  a  wife  with  niiiiiili;  ungore, 


io  the   :aiid  of  the   Dacotahs. 


HIAWATHA'S  JOURNEY. 


343 


Heart  and  hand  that  move  together, 
Feet  that  run  on  willing  errands!" 

Smiling  answered  Hiawatha : 
"  In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs 
Lives  the  Arrow-maker's  daughter, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women, 
I  will  bring  her  to  j^our  wigwam. 
She  shall  run  upon  your  errands. 
Be  your  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 
Be  the  sunlight  of  my  people  !" 

Still  dissuading  said  Nokomis  : 
"  Bring  not  to  my  lodge  a  stranger 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ! 
Very  fierce  are  the  Dacotahs, 
Often  is  there  war  between  us. 
There  are  feuds  yet  unforgotten. 
Wounds  that  ache  and  still  may  open !' 

Laughing  answered  Hiawatha : 
"  For  that  reason,  if  no  other. 
Would  I  wed  the  fair  Dacotah, 
That  our  tribes  might  be  united. 
That  old  feuds  might  be  forgotten, 
And  old  wounds  be  healed  forever !" 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
To  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
To  the  land  of  handsome  women ; 
Striding  over  moor  and  meadow, 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Through  uninterrupted  silence. 

With  his  moccasins  of  magic. 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured  ; 
Yet  the  way  seemed  long  before  him. 
And  his  heart  outran  his  footsteps ; 
And  he  journeyed  without  resting, 
Till  he  heard  the  cataract's  laughter. 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  through  the  silence. 
"  Pleasant  is  the  sound!"  he  murmured, 
"  Pleasant  is  the  voice  that  calls  me !" 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forest, 
'Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine, 
Herds  of  fallow  deer  were  feeding. 


But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha  ; 

To  his  bow  he  whispered,  "  Fail  not !" 

To  his  arrow  whispered,  "  Swerve  not !" 

Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand,^ 

To  the  red  heart  of  the  roebuck  ; 

Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder. 

And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, 
Arrow  heads  of  chalcedony. 
At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty. 
Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 
Sat  his  daughter.  Laughing  Water, 
Plaiting  mats  of  flags  and  rushes  ; 
Of  the  past  the  old  man's  thoughts  were, 
And  the  maiden's  of  the  future. 


He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there. 
Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison, 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow  ; 
Shot  the  wild  goose,  flying  southward, 
On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wawa  ; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties. 
How  they  came  to  buy  his  arrows, 
Could  not  fight  without  his  arrows. 
Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  be  found  on  earth  as  they  were ! 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women. 
Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons ! 

She  was  thinking  of  a  hunter. 
From  another  tribe  and  country. 
Young  and  tall  and  very  handsome, 

'  Who  one  morning  in  the  Spring-time, 
Came  to  buy  her  father's  arrows, 

I  Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam. 
Lingered  long  about  the  doorway, 
Looking  back  as  he  departed. 
She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him, 
Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom  ; 

I  Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 

1  To  the  falls  of  Minnehaha  ? 

I  On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle, 

I  And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 


344 


HIAWATHA'S  WOOING. 


HIAWATHAS  WOOING. 


H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


T  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
;  Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 
%it^^  Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  should- 
ers ; 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 
Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes, 
Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, 
"  You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha !" 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam, 
Made  of  deer-skin  dressed  and  whitened, 
With  the  gods  of  the  Dacotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains, 
And  80  tall  the  doorway,  haidly 
Eiawatha  stooped  to  enter, 
Hardly  touched  his  eagle-feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha, 
Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished. 
Brought  forth  food  and  set  before  them, 
Water  brought  thern  from  the  brooklet. 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels. 
Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking. 
Listened  while  her  father  answered. 
But  not  once  her  lips  she  opened. 
Not  a  single  word  she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a  dream  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 
As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomis, 
Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 
As  he  told  of  his  companions, 
Chibiabos,  the  musician, 
And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwa-ind, 
And  of  happiness  and  plenty, 
In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 
In  th':  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 

"  After  many  years  of  warfare. 
Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodHho<l, 
There  i.i  j.eace  btrtwcen  the  Ojibwavfl 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Pa<otahs  :" 
Thus  contimu'd  Iliawathu, 
And  then  added,  speaking  slowly, 
"  That  this  peace  may  last  forever. 
And  our  hands  be  rlasped  more  closely, 
And  our  hearta  bo  more  united. 


Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  water. 
Loveliest  of  Dacotah  women  ?" 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Paused  a  moment  ere  he  answered. 
Smoked  a  little  while  in  silence, 
Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly. 
Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 
And  made  answer  very  gravely :. 
"  Yes,  if  Minnehaha  wishes ; 
Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha !" 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely  as  she  stood  there, 
Neither  willing  nor  reluctant. 
As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 
Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him. 
While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it, 
"  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband !" 

This  was  Hiawatha's  wooing ! 
Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs  ! 
From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water ; 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  together, 
Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow, 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam. 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 
Crying  to  them  from  afar  off, 
"  Fare  thee  well,  0  Minnehaha!" 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Turned  again  unto  his  labor. 
Sat  down  by  his  sunny  doorway. 
Murmuring  to  him.xclf,  and  saying: 
"Thus  it  is  our  daughters  loavo  us. 
Those  wo  love,  and  those  who  lovo  us! 
Just  when  they  have  loarnoil  to  heiji  ua, 
When  we  arc  ol«l  and  lean  upon  thom. 
Comes  a  youth  with  (Uuuiting  fi-athnrs, 
With  his  flute  of  reeds,  a  stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village, 
liockons  to  the  fairest  maiden, 
An<l  she  folloWH  whi;re  lie  leads  Iht, 
Leaving  all  things  for  Iho  stranger  !" 


"On  the  outskirts  of  the  forest, 
'Twlxt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine, 
Herds  of  fallow  deer  were  feeding" 


A  CHILD'S  DREAM  OF  A  STAR. 


345 


HIAWATHA'S  RETURN. 


IkLEASANT  was  the  journey  home- 
ward 
Through  interminable  forests, 
Over  meadow,  over  mountain, 

SOver  river,  hill,  and  hollow. 
Short  it  seemed  to  Hiawatha, 
Though  they  journeyed  very  slowly, 
Though   his   pace   he   checked    and 

slackened 
To  the  steps  of  Laughing  Water. 

Over  wide  and  rushing  rivers 
In  his  arms  he  bore  the  maiden  ; 
Light  he  thought  her  as  a  feather, 
As  the  plume  upon  his  head-gear ; 
Cleared  the  tangled  pathway  for  her, 
Bent  aside  the  swaying  branches, 
Made  at  night  a  lodge  of  branches, 
And  a  bed  with  boughs  of  hemjock, 
And  a  fire  before  the  doorway 
With  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine-tree. 

All  the  traveling  winds  went  with  them 
O'er  the  meadow,  through  the  forest ; 
All  the  stars  of  night  looked  at  them, 
Watched  with  sleepless  eyes  their  slumber ; 
From  his  ambush  in  the  oak-tree 
Peered  the  squirrel,  Ad;idaumo, 
Watched  with  eager  eyes  the  lovers ; 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 
Scampered  from  the  path  before  them. 
Peeping,  peeping  from  his  burrow. 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches. 
Watched  with  curious  eyes  the  lovers. 


H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward  I 
All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  heart's-ease ; 
Sang  the  blue-bird,  the  Owaissa, 
"  Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha, 
Having  such  a  wife  to  love  you  !  " 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
"  Happy  are  you.  Laughing  Water, 
Having  such  a  noble  husband  !  " 

From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  bratchee, 
Saying  to  them,  "  0  my  children. 
Love  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shadow, 
Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine. 
Rule  by  love,  0  Hiawatha !  " 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them. 
Filled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendors. 
Whispered  to  them,  "  0  my  children. 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 
Man  imperious,  woman  feeble; 
Half  is  mine,  although  I  follow ; 
Ruled  by  patience.  Laughing  Water  !  " 

Thus  it  was  they  journeyed  homeward- 
Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis 
Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight, 
Brought  the  sunshine  of  his  people, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  women 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
In  the  land  of  handsome  women. 


A  CHILD'S  DREAM  OF  A  STAR. 


CHARLES   DICKENS. 


HEEE  was  once  a  child,  and  he  strolled  about  a  good  deal,  and  thought 
of  a  number  of  things.  He  had  a  sister  who  was  a  child  too,  and 
his  constant  companion.     They  wondered  at  the  beauty  ot  flowers,* 


^6  A  CHILD'S  DREAM  OF  A  STAR. 


they  wondered  at  the  height  and  blueness  of  the  sky ;  they  wondered  at 
the  depth  of  the  water ;  they  wondered  at  the  goodness  and  power  of  God, 
who  made  them  so  lovely. 

They  used  to  say  to  one  another  sometimes :  Supposing  all  the 
childi-en  upon  earth  were  to  die,  would  the  flowers,  and  the  water,  and  the 
sky  be  sorry  ?  They  believed  they  would  be  sorry.  For,  said  they,  the 
buds  are  the  children  of  the  flowers,  and  the  little  playful  streams  that 
gambol  down  the  hillsides  are  the  children  of  the  water,  and  the  smallest 
bright  specks  playing  at  hide  and  seek  in  the  sky  all  night  must  surely  be 
the  children  of  the  stars;  and  they  would  all  be  grieved  to  see  their 
play-mates,  the  children  of  men,  no  more. 

There  was  one  clear  shining  star  that  used  to  come  out  in  the  sky 
before  the  rest,  near  the  church  spire,  above  the  graves.  It  was  larger 
and  more  beautiful,  they  thought,  than  all  the  others,  and  every  night  they 
watched  for  it,  standing  hand-in-hand  at  a  window.  Whoever  saw  it  first, 
cried  out,  "  I  see  the  star."  And  after  that,  they  cried  out  both  together, 
knowing  so  well  when  it  would  rise,  and  where.  So  they  grew  to  be  such 
friends  with  it,  that  before  laying  down  in  their  bed,  they  always  looked 
out  once  again  to  bid  it  good  night;  and  when  they  were  turning  around 
to  sleep,  they  used  to  say,  "  God  bless  the  star !" 

But  while  she  was  still  very  young,  oh,  very  young,  the  sister 
drooped,  and  came  to  be  so  weak  that  she  could  no  longer  stand  at  the 
window  at  night,  and  then  the  child  looked  sadly  out  by  himself,  and  when 
he  saw  the  star,  turned  round  and  said  to  the  patient  pale  face  on  the  bed, 
"  I  see  the  star !"  and  then  a  smile  would  come  upon  the  face,  and  a  little 
weak  voice  used  to  say,  "  God  bless  my  brother  and  the  star !" 

And  so  the  time  came,  all  too  soon,  when  the  child  looked  out  all 
alone,  and  when  there  was  no  face  on  the  bed,  and  when  there  was  a  grave 
among  tlie  graves,  not  there  before,  and  when  the  star  made  long  rays 
down  toward  him  as  he  saw  it  through  his  tears.  Now  these  rays  were  so. 
bright,  and  they  seemed  to  make  such  a  shining  way  from  earth  to  heaven, 
that  when  the  child  went  to  his  solitary  bed,  he  dreamed  about  the  star ; 
and  dreamed  that,  lying  where  he  was,  he  saw  a  train  of  people  taken  u|) 
that  sparkling  road  by  angels  ;  and  the  star,  opening,  showing  him  a  grea! 
world  of  light,  where  many  more  such  angels  waited  to  receive  them. 

All  these  angels,  who  were  waiting,  turned  their  beaming  eyes  upon 
the  people  who  were  carried  up  into  the  star  ;  and  some  came  out  from  the 
long  rows  in  whicli  thoy  stood,  and  fell  upDii  tin;  people's  necks,  and  kissed 
tli'irn  tond<'rly,  and  went  away  with  thi-m  down  avcaiues  of  light,  and  were 
«o  Uiippy  in  their  company,  that  lying  in  his  bed  ho  wept  for  juv. 


A  CHILD'S  DREAM  OF  A  STAR.  347 

But  there  were  many  angels  who  did  not  go  with  them,  and  among 
them  one  he  knew.  The  patient  face  that  once  had  lain  upon  the  bed  was 
glorified  and  radiant,  but  his  heart  found  out  his  sister  among  all  tha 
host. 

His  sister's  angel  lingered  near  the  entrance  of  the  star,  and  said  to  tha 
leader  among  those  who  had  brought  the  people  thither  : 

"  Is  my  brother  come  ?" 

And  he  said,  "  No  !" 

She  was  turning  hopefully  away,  when  the  child  stretched  out  his 
arms,  and  cried,  "  Oh,  sister,  I  am  here !  Take  me !"  And  then  she 
turned  her  beaming  eyes  upon  him, — and  it  was  night ;  and  the  star  was 
shining  into  the  room,  making  long  rays  down  towards  him  as  he  saw  it 
through  his  tears. 

From  that  hour  forth  the  child  looked  out  upon  the  star  as  the  home 
he  was  to  go  to  when  his  time  should  come ;  and  he  thought  that  ho  did 
not  belong  to  the  earth  alone,  but  to  the  star  too,  because  of  his  sister's 
angel  gone  before. 

There  was  a  baby  born  to  be  a  brother  to  the  child,  and,  while  he  was 
so  little  that  he  never  yet  had  spoken  a  word,  he  stretched  out  his  tiny 
form  on  his  bed,  and  died. 

Again  the  child  dreamed  of  the  opened  star,  and  of  the  company  of 
angels,  and  the  train  of  people,  and  the  rows  of  angels  with  their  beaming 
eyes  all  turned  upon  those  people's  faces. 

Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader : 

"  Is  my  brother  come  ?"  * 

And  he  said,  "  Not  that  one,  but  another  !" 

As  the  child  beheld  his  brother's  angel  in  her  arms,  he  cried,  "  Oh, 
my  sister,  I  am  here !  Take  me !"  And  she  turned  and  smiled  upon 
him, — and  the  star  was  shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a  young  man,  and  was  busy  at  his  books,  when  an  old 
servant  came  to  him  and  said  : 

"  Thy  mother  is  no  more.     I  bring  her  blessing  on  her  darling  son." 

Again  at  night  he  saw  the  star,  and  all  that  former  company.  Said 
his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader,  "  Is  my  brother  come  ?" 

And  he  said,  "  Thy  mother  !" 

A  mighty  cry  of  joy  went  forth  through  all  the  star,  because  the 
mother  was  re-united  to  her  two  children.  And  he  stretched  out  his  arms 
and  cried,  "  Oh,  mother,  sister,  and  brother,  I  am  here !  Take  me  1" 
And  they  answered  him,  "  Not  yet !" — and  the  star  was  shining. 

He  grew  to  be  a  man,  whose  hair  was  turning  gray,  and  he  was 


S48 


BREAK,  BREAK.  BREAK. 


sitting  in  his  chair  by  the  fireside,  heavy  with  grief,  and  with  his  face 
bedewed  with  tears,  when  the  star  opened  once  again. 

Said  his  sister's  angel  to  the  leader,  "  Is  my  brother  come?" 

And  he  said,  "  Nay,  but  his  maiden  daughter  !" 

And  the  man  who  had  been  a  child,  saw  his  daughter,  newly  lost  to 
him,  a  celestial  creature  among  those  three,  and  he  said  :  "  My  daughter  s 
head  is  on  my  sister's  bosom,  and  her  arm  is  around  my  mother's  neck, 
and  at  her  feet  is  the  baby  of  old  time,  and  I  can  bear  the  parting  from 
her,  God  be  praised  !" — And  the  star  was  shining. 

Thus  the  child  came  to  be  an  old  man,  and  his  once  .smooth  face  was 
wrinkled,  and  his  steps  were  slov/  and  feeble,  and  his  back  was  bent.  xVnd 
one  night  as  he  lay  upon  his  bed,  his  children  standing  round,  ho  cried,  as 
he  cried  so  long  ago  :  "  I  see  the  star !" 

They  whispered  one  another,  "  He  i.-s  dying.''  And  he  said,  "  I  am. 
My  age  is  falling  from  me  like  a  garment,  and  I  move  towards  the  star  as 
a  child.  And  0,  my  Father,  now  I  thank  Thee  that  it  has  so  often  ojiened 
to  receive  those  dear  ones  who  await  me!'' — 

And  the  star  was  shining ;  and  it  shines  upon  his  grave. 


BREAK,   BRHAK,  BIlKAK. 

ALFUKD    TENNYSON. 


iREAK.I.roiik,  brn;ik, 

On  tliy  colli  f^ray  Btones,  0  Hca! 
And  I  would   that  my  loaguo  could 
utter 
TL<3  tboughtM  llial  ',\t\w  in  mn. 


0  well  fi>r  lh<!  fishoriiKiii's  hoy, 
That  he  nhouls  with  hiw  tiiHtor  at 
j.lay, 

0  woU  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  ho  sin;;*'  in  Iuh  boat  on  tliu  bay. 


TITE  DEATH  OF  TPIE  FLOWERS. 


549 


And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill; 

But  0  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 


Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


iHE   melancholy   days   are   come,    the 

saddest  of  the  year. 
Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods, 

and  meadows  brown  and  sear. 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove, 

the  autumn  leaves  lie  dead  ; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and 

to  the  rabbit's  tread. 


The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from 

the  shrubs  the  ja}". 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through 

all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers, 

that  latelj'  sprang  and  stood 
In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous 

sisterhood  ? 
Alas  !  they  all  are  in  their  graves  ;  the  gentle 

race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds  with  the  fair 

and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie ;  but  the 

cold  November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely 

ones  again. 


The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished 

long  ago, 
And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid 

the  summer  glow  ; 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster 

in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook  in 

autumn  beauty  stood, 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven, 

as  falls  the  plague  on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone 

from  upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as 

still  such  days  will  come. 
To  call  the  squifrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their 

winter  home ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard, 

though  all  the  trees  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters 

of  the  rill, 
The   south-wind    searches   for    the    flowers 

whose  fragrance  late  he  bore. 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by 

the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youth- 
ful beaut}'  died, 

The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and 
faded  by  my  side. 

In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the 
forests  cast  the  leaf, 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have 
a  life  so  brief; 

Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that 
young  friend  of  ours. 

So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  shdul  1  I'orish  with 
the  flowers. 


350 


ROME  AND  CARTHAGE. 


BENEDICITE. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 


^^kOD'S  love  and  peace  be  with  thee,  where 
Jl#te  Soe'er  this  soft  autumnal  air 
f^^  Lifts  the  dark  tresses  of  thy  hair! 

*i'    Whether  through  city  casements  comes 
i      Its  kiss  to  thee,  in  crowded  rooms, 
T     Or,  out  among  the  woodland  blooms. 

The  hills  we  climbed,  the  river  seen 
By  gleams  along  its  deep  ravine, — 
All  keep  thy  memory  fresh  and  green. 

Where'er  I  look,  where'er  I  stray. 

Thy  thought  goes  with  me  on  my  way,    • 

And  hence  the  prayer  I  breathe  to-day  ; 

O'er  lapse  of  time  and  change  of  scene, 
The  weary  waste  which  lies  between 
Thyself  and  me,  my  heart  I  lean. 

Thou  lack'st  not  Friendship's  spellword,  nor 
The  half-unconscious  power  to  draw 
All  hearts  to  thine  by  Love's  sweet  law. 

It  freshens  o'er  thy  thoughtful  face. 
Imparting,  in  its  glad  embrace, 
Beauty  to  beauty,  grace  to  grace  ! 


,   Fair  Nature's  book  together  read, 
The  old  wood-paths  that  knew  our  tread. 
The  maple  shadows  overhead, — 


With  these  good  gifts  of  God  is  cast 
Thy  lot,  and  many  a  charm  thou  hast 
To  hold  the  blessed  angels  fast. 

If,  then,  a  fervent  wish  for  thee 

The  gracious  heavens  will  heed  from  me, 

What  should,  dear  heart,  its  burden  be  '? 

The  sighing  of  a  shaken  reed, — 
What  can  I  more  than  meekly  plead 
The  greatness  of  our  common  need  ? 

God's  love, — unchanging,  pure,  and  true, 
The  Paraclete  white-shining  through 
His  peace, — the  fall  of  Ilermon's  dew  ! 

With  such  a  ^ayer,  on  this  swort  day, 
As  thou  mayst  hear  and  I  may  say, 
I  greet  thee,  dearest,  far  away  ! 


ROME  AND  CARTHAGE. 


VICTOR    HUGO. 


^ 


►  OME  and  Carthago  ! — bohold  tliom  drawing  near  for  the  strngglo 
"V.  tliat  is  to  shake  tlie  world!  Carthago,  tho  metropolis  of  Africa, 
is  the  mistress  of  oceans,  of  kingdoms,  and  of  nations ;  a  magni- 
H  ficent  city,  hurthened  with  opulence,  radiant  with  tho  strange  arta 
I  and  trophif'B  of  the  East.  She  is  at  tho  acme  of  her  civilization.  She 
"  can  mount  no  higlu'r.  Any  chango  now  must  be  a  decline.  Rome  in 
comparatively  poor.  She  has  seized  all  within  her  grasp,  hut  rather  from 
the  lust  of  conquest  than  to  fill  her  own  coffers.     She  is  demi-barbaroua, 


ROME  AND  CARTHAGE. 


351 


and  has  her  ed- 
ucation and  her 
fortune  both  to 
make.  All  is  be- 
fore her,  noth- 
ing behind.  For 
a  time  these  two 
nations  exist  in 
distinct  view  of 
each  other.  The 
one  reposes  in 
the  noontide  of 
her  splendor; 
the  other  waxes 
strong  in  the 
shade.  But,  lit- 
tle by  little,  air 
and  space  are 
wanting  to  each, 
for  the  develop- 
ment of  each. 
Rome  begins  to 
systematically 
perplex  Carth- 
age, and  Carthage  is  an  eyesore  to  Rome.  Seated  on  opposite  banks  of 
the  Mediterranean,  the  two  cities  look  each  other  in  the  face.  The  sea 
no  longer  keeps  them  apart.  Europe  and  Africa  weigh  upon  each  other. 
Like  two  clouds  surcharged  with  electricity,  they  impend.  With  their 
contact  must  come  the  thunder-shock. 

The  catastrophe  of  this  stupendous  drama  is  at  hand.  What  actors 
are  met !  Two  races, — that  of  merchants  and  mariners,  that  of  laborers 
and  soldiers ;  two  Nations, — the  one  dominant  by  gold  the  other  by  steel ; 
two  Republics, — the  one  theocratic,  the  other  aristocratic.  Rome  and 
Carthage !  Rome  with  her  army,  Carthage  with  her  fleet ;  Carthage  old, 
rich,  and  crafty, — Rome,  young,  poor,  and  robust;  the  past  and  the 
future;  the  spirit  of  discovery,  and  the  spirit  of  conquest;  the  genius  of 
commerce,  the  demon  of  war ;  the  East  and  the  South  on  one  side,  the 
West  and  the  North  on  the  other ;  in  short,  two  worlds, — the  civilization 
of  Africa,  and  the  civilization  of  Europe.  They  measure  each  other  from 
bead  to  foot.     They  gather  all  their  forces.     Gradually  the  war  kindles. 


TRIUMPHAL    ARCH    AT    ROME. 


352 


FARM-YARD  SONG. 


The  world  takes  fire.  These  colossal  powers  are  locked  in  deadly  strifa 
Carthage  has  crossed  the  Alps  ;  Borne  the  seas.  The  two  Nations,  per- 
sonified in  two  men,  Hannibal  and  Scipio,  close  with  each  other,  wrestle, 
and  grow  infuriate.  The  duel  is  desperate.  It  is  a  struggle  for  life. 
Eome  wavers. — She  utters  that  cry  of  anguish — Hannibal  at  the  gates ! 
But  she  rallies, — collects  all  her  strength  for  one  last,  appalling  effort, — 
throws  herseK  upon  Carthage,  and  sweeps  her  frDm  the  face  of  the 
earth ! 


FABM-YABD  SONG. 


J.    T.    TROWBRIDGE. 


^^m>^ 


?VER  the  hill  the  farm -boy  goes  : 
His  shadow  lengthens  along  the  land, 
^S5d    "^  giant  staff  in  his  giant  hand ; 
I  In  the  poplar-tree  above  the  spring 

The  katydid  begins  to  sing; 

The  early  dews  are  falling : 
Into  the  stone-heap  darts  the  mink, 
The  swallows  skim  the  river's  brink, 


L 


And  home  to  the  woodland  tly  the  crows, 
When  ov^T  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes, 

Cheerily  calling — 

"  Co',  boss !  co',  boss  !  co' !  co' !  co'  I' 
Farther,  farther  over  the  hill, 
Faintly  calling;,  calling  still — 

"  Co',  bwH  '  i-m\  boss!  co'  1  co'  I" 

Into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes. 

With  grateful  lie:irt,  at  the  close  of  day  : 

Harness  and  chain  are  hung  away  ; 


In  the  wagon-shed  stand  yoke  and  plough  ; 
The  straw's  in  the  stack,  the  hay  in  the  mow ; 

The  cooling  dews  are  falling  ; 
The  friendly  sheep  his  welcome  bleat. 
The  pigs  come  grunting  to  his  feet, 
The  whinnying  mare  her  master  knows, 
When  into  the  yard  the  farmer  goes, 

His  cattle  calling — 

"Co',  boss!  co',  boss!  co' !  co' !  co' !" 
While  still  the  cow-boy,  far  away, 
Goes  seeking  those  who  have  gone  astray— 

"  Co',  boss !  co',  boss !  co' !  co'  1 

Now  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes  ; 

The  cattle  come  crowding  through  the  gate, 

Lowing,  pushing,  little  and  great; 

About  the  trough,  by  the  farm-yard  pump, 

The  frolicksomt;  yearlings  frisk  and  jump, 

While  the  jileasant  dews  are  falling: 
The  new  milch  heifer  is  quick  and  shy. 
But  the  old  cow  v/aits  with  tranquil  eye-, 
And  the  white  stream  into  the  bright  pail 

flows. 
When  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes, 

Soothingly  c.illing — 

"  So,  boss  !  80,  boss  !  so !  so !  so  I 
The  cheerful  milkmaid  takes  hor  stool, 
And  sits  and  milks  in  the  twilight  cool, 

Saying,  "  So,  so,  boss!  so,  sol" 

To  supper  at  last  tlie  farmer  goes  : 
The  appl(!S  are  pared,  tlie  paper  is  rea<l, 
The  stories  are  told,  then  all  to  beil : 
Witliout,  the  cricket's  ceaseless  rong 
Makes  shrill  the  silence  all  night  long; 


CO 


K 


I— I  ■''- 

^   .5 


t. 


HOW'S  MY  BOY? 


The  heavy  dews  are  falling  : 
The  housewife's  hand  has  turned  the  lock 
Drowsily  ticks  the  kitchen  clock  ; 
The  household  sinks  to  deep  repose; 
But  still  in  sleep  the  farm-boy  goes 


Sft 


Singing,  calling — 

"  Co',  boss  !  co',  boss !  co' !  co' !  co' ! 
And  oft  the  milkmaid,  in  her  dreams, 
Drums  in  the  pail  with  the  flashing  streams, 

Murmuring,  "So,  boss!  so!" 


/  WOULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAY. 


E.    MUHLENBERG. 


would  not  live  alway  ;  I  ask  not  to  stay 
Where  storm  after  storm  rises  dark  o'er 

the  way ; 
The  few  lurid  mornings  that  dawn  on 

us  here 
Are  enough  for  life's  joys,  full  enough 

for  its  cheer. 

I  would  not  live  alway  ;  no, — welcome  the 

tomb  I 
Since  Jesus  hath  lain  there,  I  dread  not  its 

gloom  ; 
There  sweet  be  my  rest  till  he  bid  me  arise, 
To  hail  him  in  triumph  descending  the  skies. 


Who,  who  would  live  alway,  away  from  hia 

God,— 
Away  from  yon  heaven,  that  blissful  abode, 
Where  rivers  of  pleasure  flow  bright  o'er  the 

plains. 
And  the  noontide  of  glory  eternally  reigns  ? 

There  saints  of  all  ages  in  harmony  meet. 
Their  Saviour  and  brethren  transported  to 

greet ; 
While  anthems  of  rapture  unceasingly  roll, 
And  the  smile  of  the  Lord  is  the  feast  of  th« 

soul. 


HOW'S  MY  BOY? 


SYDNEY   DOBELL. 


(^^O,  Sailor  of  the  sea ! 

How's  my  bo}' — my  boy  ? 

"  What's  your  boy's  name,  good  wife, 

And  in  what  good  ship  sailed  he  ?" 

J     My  boy  John — 
He  that  went  to  sea — 
What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  ? 
My  boy's  my  boy  to  me. 

You  come  back  from  sea. 
And  not  know  my  John  ? 
I  might  as  well  have  asked  some  landsman 
Yonder  down  in  the  town. 
There's  not  an  ass  in  all  the  parish 
But  he  knows  my  John. 
24 


How's  ray  boy — my  boy  ? 

And  unless  you  let  me  know 

I'll  swear  j-ou  are  no  sailor, 

Blue  jacket  or  no, 

Brass  button  or  no,  sailor. 

Anchor  or  crown  or  no ! 

Sure  his  ship  was  the  Jolly  Briton — 

"  Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low !" 

And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor? 

About  my  own  boy  John  ? 

If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud 

I'd  sing  him  over  the  town  ! 

Why  should  I  speak  low.  sailor  ? — 

"  That  good  ship  went  down." 


354 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 


How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor, 

I  never  was  aboard  her. 

Be  she  afloat,  or  be  she  aground. 

Sinking  or  swimming,  I'll  be  bound, 

Her  owners  can  afford  her ! 

I  say,  how's  my  John  ? — 


"  Every  man  on  board  went  down, 
Every  man  aboard  her." 

How's  m)'  boy — my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor? 
I'm  not  their  mother — 
How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other  3 
How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 


,^2o 

J?NE  more  unfortunate 
!#       Weary  of  breath, 
^Y   Rashly  importunate. 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 
Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly — 
Young,  and  so  fair  1 

Look  at  her  garments, 
Clinging  like  cerements, 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 

Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly. 

Loving,  not  loathing\ 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  I 
Think  of  her  mournfully. 

Gently  and  humanly — 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her; 
All  that  rf-mains  of  her 

Now  ifl  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny, 
Into  her  mutiny, 

Rash  and  undutiful ; 
Pa."t  all  dishonor, 
Death  ha'i  left  on  hf-r 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slipH  of  lierB, — 
One  of  five's  family, — 

Wipe  thoflo  poor  lips  of  hers, 
( )ozing  80  clammily. 


THOMAS   HOOD. 


Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb, — 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses, — 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses, 

Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 

Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  on« 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun  ! 
Oh,  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  liad  none. 

Sisterly,  brotliorly. 
Fatherly,  motherly 

Feelings  had  changed, — 
liove,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Tlirown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

Where  tlie  lamjis  quivei 
So  far  in  the  river, 

Witli  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement 
From  garret  to  basonient, 
She  stood,  witli  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 


MORNING. 


355 


The  bleak  wind  of  ^March 

Ere  her  limbs,  frigidly, 

Made  her  tremble  and  t^liiver ; 

Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

But  not  the  dark  anh, 

Decently,  kindly, 

Or  the  black,  flowing  river  ; 

Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 

Mad  from  life's  history, 

And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Glad  to  death's  mystery, 

Staring  so  blindly  ! — 

Swift  to  be  hurled — 

Dreadfully  staring 

Anywhere,  anywhere 

Through  muddy  jnpurity, 

Out  of  the  world  ! 

As  when  with  the  daring 

La,st  look  of  despairing 

In  Fhe  plunged  boldly, — 

Fixed  on  futurity. 

No  matter  how  coldlj' 

Perishing  gloomily. 

The  rough  river  ran, — 

Spurred  by  contumely, 

Over  the  brink  of  it ! 

Cold  inhumanity, 

Picture  it, — think  of  it 

Burning  insanity, 

Dissolute  man  ! 

Into  her  rest ! 

Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it 

Cross  her  hands  humbly, 

Then,  if  you  can ! 

As  if  praying  dumbly. 

Over  her  breast ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Owning  her  weakness. 

Lift  her  with  care  ; 

Her  evil  behaviour, 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

And  leaving,  with  meekness 

Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour  ! 

iV*:?  '  *^'V,^^  ,i^«»-f :  ^i^.Jm^ 


MORNING. 


EDWARD   EVERETT. 


we  proceeded,  the   timid  approach  of   twilight  became   more  per- 
ceptible; the  intense  bhie  of  the  sky  began  to  soften;  the  smaller 
stars,  like  little  children,  went  first  to  rest ;  the  sister  beams  of  the 
Pleiades  soon  melted  together ;  but  the  bright  constellations  oi  the 
west  and  north  remained  unchanged.     Steadily  the  wondrous  trans- 
figuration went  on.     Hands  of  angels  hidden  from  mortal  eyes  shifted 


356 


A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION. 


the  scenery  of  the  heavens ;  the  glories  of  night  dissolved  into  the  glories 
of  dawn.  The  blue  sky  now  turned  more  softly  gray ;  the  great  watch- 
stars  shut  up  their  holy  eyes;  the  east  began  to  kindle.  Faint  streaks  of 
purple  soon  blushed  along  the  sky;  the  whole  celestial  concave  was  filled 
with  the  inflowing  tides  of  the  morning  light,  which  came  pouring  down 
from  above  in  one  great  ocean  of  radiance ;  till  at  length,  as  we  reached  the 
Blue  Hills,  a  flash  of  purple  fire  blazed  out  from  above  the  horizon,  and 
turned  the  dewy  teai'-drops  of  flower  and  leaf  into  rubies  and  diamonds. 
In  a  few  seconds  the  everlasting  gates  of  the  morning  were  thrown  wide 
open,  and  the  I'ord  of  day,  arrayed  in  glories  too  severe  for  the  gaze  of 
man,  began  his  state. 


THE  PARTING  LOVERS. 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    CHINESE    BY    WILLIAM    R.  ALGER, 


^jgHE  says,  "  The  cock  crows, — hark  !" 
j^l    He  says,  "  No !  still  't  is  dark." 


She  says,  "The  dawn  grows  bright," 
'^^       He  says,  "  0  no,  my  Light." 

She  says,  "  Stand  up  and  say, 
Gets  not  the  heaven  gray?" 


He  says,  "  The  morning  star 
Climbs  the  liorizon's  bar." 

She  says,  "  Then  quick  depart: 
Alas  !  you  now  must  start ; 

But  give  the  cock  a  blow 
Who  did  begin  our  woe !" 


A   WOMAN'S  QUESTION 


ADELAIDE    A.     PROCTER. 


EFORE  I  trust  my  fato  to  thee. 
Or  place  my  hand  in  thine, 
Before  I  let  tliy  future  givo 

Color  and  form  to  mine, 
Before  I  peril  all  for  thee, 
Question  thy  soul  to-night  fur  mo. 


^  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor  feel 

A  shadow  of  regret : 
la  there  one  link  within  the  past 

That  holds  thy  spirit  yet? 
Or  in  thy  faith  a.s  clear  and  free 
Ae  that  which  I  cau  pledge  to  thee  ? 


Dofs  there  within  thy  dimmest  driMms 

A  j)0S8ible  future  sliino, 
Wherein  thy  life  could  henceforth  l)ro«ithe, 

Untouched,  unshared  by  mine  ? 
If  so,  at  any  pain  or  cost, 
0,  tell  me  before  all  is  lost ! 

Look  deeper  still  :   if  thou  cansi  feel. 

Within  tiiy  inmost  soul, 
That  tiiou  hast  kept  a  [lortiun  back, 

WliiJc  I  have  stakc^l  (lin  whole, 
Jjet  no  false  pity  spare  the  iilow, 
But  in  true  mercy  ti'll  mo  so. 


THE  TIGER. 


357 


Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 

Couldst  thou  withdraw  thy  hand  one  day 

That  mine  cannot  fulfil? 

And  answer  to  my  claim, 

One  chord  that  any  other  hand 

That  fate,  and  that  to-day's  mistake, — 

Could  better  wake  or  still? 

Not  thou, — had  been  to  blame  ? 

Speak  now,  lest  at  some  future  day 

Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus  ;  but  ihom 

My  whole  life  wither  and  decay. 

Wilt  surely  warn  and  save  rae  now. 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid 

Nay,  answer  not, — I  dare  not  hear, 

The  demon-spirit,  change. 

The  words  would  come  too  late  ; 

Shedding  a  passing  glory  still 

Yet  I  would  spare  thee  all  remorse, 

On  all  things  new  and  strange  ? 

So  comfort  thee,  my  fate  : 

It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone, — 

Whatever  on  my  heart  may  fall. 

But  shield  my  heart  against  thine  own. 

Remember  I  would  risk  it  all ! 

THE   TIGER 


WILLIAM     BLAKE. 


JIGER  !   tiger !  burning  bright, 
In  the  forest  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  the  ardor  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 
What  tlie  hand  dare  seize  the  lire  ? 


And  what  .-shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  hea't  i 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat. 
What  dread  hand  forged  thy  dread  ftet? 

What  the  hammer  ?   what  the  chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?    What  dread  gra,sp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 


358 


POOR  LITTLE  JOE. 


When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears. 
Did  God  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 
Did  lie  who  made  the  lamb  make  th^e '' 


Tiger !  tiger  !    burning  bright, 
In  the  forest  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry. 


THE  CHURCH  WINDOW. 


JXO.  W.   ("rOKTJIl-;. 


.riE  minster  window,  riihly  glowing 

With  many  a  gorgeous  stain  and  dye, 

^^^jQ.t'ibM  a  parable,  is  showing 

The  might,  the  power  of  Poesy. 

Look  on  it  from  the  open  square, 
And  it  is  only  dark  and  dreary ; 
Yon  blockhead  views  it  always  there, 
And  vows  its  aspect  makes  him  wiary. 


But  enter  once  the  holy  portal — 
What  splendor  bursts  upon  the  eye ! 

There  syiii})ols,  deeds  and  forms  immortal, 
Are  blazing  forth  in  majesty. 

Be  thankful,  you  who  have  the  gift 
To  read  and  feel  each  sacred  story ; 

And,  oh !  be  reverent,  when  you  lift 
Your  eyes  to  look  on  heavenly  glory. 


POOR  LITTLE  JOE. 


JC^. 


i'.  Aiu<\vi;,ii;iri', 


U- 


T:OP  yer  eyes  wide  opr-n  Joey, 

Ff)r  V\<-  brought  you  sumpin'  great. 
AppleJif   No,  a  I)i-a[i  siglit  bettor  I 

Don't  you  take  no  int'rest?    Wait! 
Flowers,  Joe — 1  knuw'd  you'd  liki! 
'em — 


Ain't  them  scrumptious?     Ain't  them  high  7 

Tears,  my  boy?  Wot's  them  fur,  Joey  ^ 
There — poor  little  Joe! — don't  cry  I 

I  was  skippin'  past  a  windur. 
Where  a  bang  up  lady  not, 


THE  LITTLE  EVANGELIST. 


359 


All  amongst  a  lot  of  bushes — 
Each  one  climbin'  from  a  pot ; 

Every  bush  had  flowers  on  it — 
Pretty  f     Mebbe  not !    Oh,  no ! 

Wish  you  could  a  seen  'em  growin', 
It  was  sich  a  stunnin'  show. 

Well,  I  thought  of  you,  poor  feller, 

Lyin'  here  so  sick  and  weak. 
Never  knowin'  any  comfort, 

And  I  puts  on  lots  o'  cheek. 
"  Missus,"  says  I,  "  If  you  please,  mum, 

Could  I  ax  you  for  a  rose  ? 
For  my  little  brother,  missus — 

Never  seed  one,  I  suppose." 

Then  I  told  her  all  about  you, — 

How  I  bringed  you  up — poor  Joe ! 
(Lackiu'  women  folks  to  do  it.) 

Sich  a'  imp  you  was,  you  know — 
Till  yer  got  that  awful  tumble, 

Jist  as  I  had  broke  j^er  in. 
(Hard  work,  too,)  to  earn  yer  livin' 

Blackin'  boots  fo-  honest  tin. 

How  that  tumble  crippled  of  you. 

So's  you  couldn't  hyper  much — 
Joe,  it  hurted  when  I  seen  you 

Fur  the  first  time  with  yer  crutch. 
"  But,"  I  says,  "  he's  laid  up  now,  mum, 

'Pears  to  weaken  every  day  ;" 
Joe,  she  up  and  went  to  cuttin' — 

That's  the  how  of  this  bokay. 


Say !    It  seems  to  me,  ole  feller. 

You  is  quite  yerself  to-night ; 
Kind  o'  chirk — it's  been  a  fortnit 

Sence  yer  eyes  has  been  so  bright. 
Better  f     Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it ! 

Yes,  they're  mighty  pretty,  Joe. 
Smellin  of 'ems  made  you  happy  f 

Well,  I  thought  it  would,  you  kuow  \ 

Never  see  the  country,  did  you  ? 

Flowers  growin'  everywhere  ! 
Some  time  when  j'ou're  better,  Joey, 

Mebbe  I  kin  take  you  there. 
Flowers  in  heaven  f     'M — I  s'pose  so ; 

Dunno  much  about  it,  tiiough  ; 
Ain't  as  fly  as  wot  I  might  be 

On  them  topics,  little  Joe. 

But  I've  heard  it  hinted  somewheres 

That  in  heaven's  golden  gates 
Things  is  everlastin'  cheerful — 

B'lieve  that's  wot  the  Bible  states. 
Likewise,  there  folks  don't  git  hungry ; 

So  good  people,  when  they  dies, 
Finds  themselves  well  fixed  forever — 

Joe,  my  boy,  wot  ails  yer  eyes  ? 

Thought  they  looked  a  little  sing'ler. 

Oh,  no  !   Don't  you  have  no  fear  ; 
Heaven  was  made  fur  such  as  you  is — 

Joe,  wot  makes  you  look  so  queer  ? 
Here — wake  up!   Oh,  don't  look  that  way 

Joe !   My  boy  !    Hold  up  yer  head  ! 
Here's  yer  flowers — you  dropped  'em  J^ey 

Oh,  my  God,  can  Joe  be  deadf 


THE  LITTLE  EVANGELIST. 


HARRIET    BEECHER   STOWE. 


§P0ME  here,  Tops,  you  monkey  !"  said  St.  Clare,  calling  the  child  up 
to  him. 

Topsy  came  up ;  her  round,  hard  eyes  glittering  and  blinking 
with  a  mixture  of  apprehensiveness  and  their  usual  odd  drollery. 
"  What  makes  you  behave  so  ?"  said  St.  Clare,  who  could  not  help 
being  amused  with  the  child's  expression. 


360  THE  LITTLE  EVANGELIST. 

"  Spects  it's  my  wicked  heart,"  said  Topsy,  demurely ;  "  Miss  Feely 
says  so." 

"  Don't  you  see  how  much  Miss  Ophelia  has  done  for  you  ?  She  says 
she  has  done  every  thing  she  can  think  of." 

"  Lor,  yes,  Mas'r  !  old  Missus  used  to  say  so,  too.  She  whipped  me 
a  heap  harder,  and  used  to  pull  my  har,  and  knock  my  head  agin  the  door; 
but  it  didn't  do  me  no  good  !  I  spects,  if  they's  to  pull  every  spear  o'  har 
out  o'  my  head  it  wouldn't  do  no  good,  neither — I's  so  wicked !  Laws ! 
I's  nothin'  but  a  nigger,  no  ways  !" 

"Well,  I  shall  have  to  give  her  up,"  said  Miss  Ophelia;  "I  can't 
have  that  trouble  any  longer." 

"  "Well,  I'd  just  like  to  ask  one  question,"  said  St.  Clare. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Why,  if  your  Gospel  is  not  strong  enough  to  save  one  heathen 
child,  that  you  can  have  at  home  here,  all  to  yourself,  what's  the  use  of 
sending  one  or  two  poor  missionaries  ofi  with  it  among  thousands  of  just 
such  ?  I  suppose  this  child  is  about  a  fair  sample  of  what  thousands  of 
your  heathen  are." 

Miss  Ophelia  did  not  make  an  immediate  answer;  and  Eva,  who  had 
stood  a  silent  spectator  of  the  scene  thus  far,  made  a  silent  sign  to  Topsy 
to  follow  her.  There  was  a  little  glass  room  at  the  corner  of  the  verandah, 
which  St.  Clare  used  as  a  sort  of  reading-room ;  and  Eva  and  Topsy  dis- 
appeared into  this  place. 

"  What's  Eva  going  about  now  ?"  said  St.  Clare;  "  I  mean  to  see." 

And  advancing  on  tiptoe,  he  lifted  up  a  curtain  that  covered  the 
glass  door,  and  looked  in.  Li  a  moment,  laying  his  finger  on  his  lips,  he 
made  a  silent  gesture  to  Miss  Ophelia  to  come  and  look.  There  sat  the 
two  children  on  the  floor,  with  their  side  faces  towards  them,  Topsy  with 
her  usual  air  of  careless  drollery  and  unconcern  ;  but  opposite  to  her,  Eva, 
her  whole  face  fervent  with  feeling,  and  tears  in  her  large  eyes. 

"  What  does  make  you  so  bad,  Topsy  ?  Why  won't  you  try  and  bo 
good  ?     Don't  you  love  anybody,  Topsy?" 

"  Duniio  nothin'  'bout  love ;  I  loves  candy  and  sich,  that's  all,"  said 
Topsy. 

"  But  you  love  your  father  and  mother?" 

"  Never  had  none,  ye  know.     I  tolled  ye  that,  Miss  Eva." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  said  Eva,  sa<lly ;  "  but  had  you  any  brother,  or  sister, 
)r  aunt,  or — " 

"No,  none  on  'cin — n^ver  had  nothin'  nor  nobody.'" 

"  But,  Topsy,  if  you'd  only  try  and  bo  good,  you  might — " 


THE  LITTLE  EVANGELIST.  361 

"  Couldn't  never  be  nothin'  but  a  nigger  if  I  war  ever  so  good,"  said 
Topsy.     "  If  I  could  be  skinned,  and  come  white,  I'd  try  then," 

"  But  people  can  love  you,  if  you  are  black,  Topsy.  Miss  Ophelia 
would  love  you,  if  you  were  good." 

Topsy  gave  a  short,  blunt  laugh  that  was  her  common  mode  of  ex- 
pressing incredulity. 

"Don't  you  think  so  ?"  said  Eva. 

"No;  she  can't  bar  me,  'cause  I'm  a  nigger — she'd  's  soon  have  a 
toad  touch  her !  There  can't  nobody  love  niggers,  and  niggers  can't  do 
nothin'!     /don't  care,"  said  Topsy,  beginning  to  whistle. 

"  Oh,  Topsy,  poor  child,  /  love  you !"  said  Eva,  with  a  sudden  burst 
of  feeling,  and  laying  her  little  thin,  white  hand  on  Topsy 's  shoulder;  "  I 
love  you,  because  you  haven't  had  any  father,  or  mother  or  friends ;  because 
you've  been  a  poor,  abused  child  !  I  love  you,  and  I  want  you  to  be  good. 
I  am  very  unwell,  Topsy,  and  I  think  I  sha'n't  live  a  great  while ;  and  it 
really  grieves  me  to  have  you  be  so  naughty.  I  wish  you  would  try  to 
be  good  for  my  sake — it's  only  a  little  while  I  shall  be  with  you." 

The  round,  keen  eyes  of  the  black  child  were  overcast  with  tears — 
large,  bright  drops  rolled  heavily  down,  one  by  one,  and  fell  on  the  little 
white  hand.  Yes,  in  that  moment  a  ray  of  real  belief,  a  ray  of  heavenly 
love  had  penetrated  the  darkness  of  her  heathen  soul !  She  laid  her  head 
down  between  her  knees,  and  wept  and  sobbed — while  the  beautiful  child, 
bending  over  her,  looked  like  the  picture  of  some  bright  angel  stooping  to 
reclaim  a  sinner. 

"Poor  Topsy!"  said  Eva,  "Don't  you  know  that  Jesus  loves  all 
alike?  He  is  just  as  willing  to  love  you  as  me.  He  loves  you  just  as  I 
do — only  more,  because  He  is  better.  He  will  help  you  to  be  good  ;  and 
you  can  go  to  heaven  at  last,  and  be  an  angel  forever,  just  as  much  as  if 
you  were  white.  Only  think  of  it,  Topsy  !  you  can  be  one  of  those  spirits 
bright,  Uncle  Tom  sings  about." 

"0,  dear  Miss  Eva,  dear  Miss  Eva!"  said  the  child;  "I  will  try;  I 
never  did  care  nothin'  about  it  before." 

St.  Clare,  at  that  instant,  dropped  the  curtain.  "  It  puts  me  in  mind 
of  mother,"  he  said  to  Miss  Ophelia.  "  It  is  true  what  she  told  me ;  if 
we  want  to  give  sight  to  the  blind,  we  must  be  willing  to  do  as  Christ  did 
— call  them  to  us,  and  p^wi  our  hands  on  them.'' 

"  I've  always  had  a  prejudice  against  negroes,"  said  Miss  Ophelia, 
"  and  it's  a  fact,  I  never  could  bear  to  have  that  child  touch  me ;  but  I 
didn't  think  she  knew  it." 

"Trust  any  child  to  find  that  out,"  said  St.  Clare;  "there's  no  keep- 


362 


THE  CAVE  OF  SILVER. 


ing  it  from  them.  But  I  believe  that  all  the  trying  in  the  world  to  benefit 
a  child,  and  all  the  substantial  favors  you  can  do  them,  will  never  excite 
one  emotion  of  gratitude  while  that  feeling  of  repugnance  remains  in  the 
heart — it's  a  queer  kind  of  a  fact — but  so  it  is." 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  can  help  it,"  said  Miss  Ophelia ;  "  they  are 
disagreeable  to  me — this  child  in  particular — how  can  I  help  feeling  so  ?" 

"  Eva  does,  it  seems." 

"  Well,  she  is  so  loving  !     After  all  though,  she's  no  more  than  Christ 
like,"  said  Miss  Ophelia ;   "  I  wish  I  were  like  her.     She  might  teach  me  a 
lesson." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time  a  little  child  has  been  used  to  instruct 
an  old  disciple,  if  it  were  so,"  said  St.  Clare. 


THE  SEA. 


BARRY    CORNW^ALL. 


^HE  sea!  the  sea!  the  open  sea! 
The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free ! 
Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 
It  runneth   the  earth's  wide  region 

round  ; 
It  plays  with  the  clouds ;    it  mocks 

the  skies ; 
Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I'm  on  the  sea !  I'm  on  the  sea ! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be ! 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go  ; 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  wake  the  deep, 

What  matter?     I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  miver  »va.i  on  the  dull  tamo  shore, 

But  I  love  the  great  sea  more  and  more. 


And  backward  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  motlier's  nest 


And  a  inotlu^r  she  was,  and  is  to  mo, 
For  1  w;is  born  on  the  open  sea. 


77//';  CA  VE  OF  SILVEE. 


FIT/,-.IAMES   0  RRIEN. 


KEK  me  llie  cave  of  silver! 
Find  mo  the  cave  f)fHilverl 
L  RiOe  the  cave  of  silver! 

Said  llda  to  Brok  the  Bold: 


Sn  you  may  kiss  me  often ; 
So  you  may  rin^;  my  linger ; 
Ho  you  may  bind  my  true  lovo 
In  til'?  round  hoop  of  gold) 


'  T  love,  0,  how  I  love  to  ride 
^a  the  fierce   foaming  bnrst'T- 


)  Where  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon 
^r^d  whistles  aloft  its  tempest  tune." 


LORD  DUNDREARY  AT  BRIGHTON. 


363 


Bring  me  no  skins  of  foxes  ; 
Bring  me  no  beds  of  eider  ; 
Boast  not  your  fifty  vessels 

That  fish  in  the  northern  sea  ; 
For  I  would  lie  upon  velvet, 
And  sail  in  a  golden  galley, 
And  naught  but  the  cave  of  silver 

Will  win  my  true  love  for  thee. 

Rena,  the  witch,  hath  told  me 
That  up  in  the  ^v^ld  Lapp  moun- 
tains 
There  lieth  a  cave  of  silver, 

Down  deep  in  a  valley-side  ; 
So  gather  your  lance  and  rifle, 
And  speed  to  the  purple  pastures, 
And  seek  ye  the  cave  of  silver 

As  you  seek  me  for  your  bride. 

I  go  said  Brok,  right  proudly  ; 
I  go  to  the  purple  pastures. 
To  seek  for  the  cave  of  silver 

So  long  as  my  life  shall  hold ; 
But  when  the  keen  Lapp  arrows 
Are   fleshed   in   the   heart  that 

loves  you, 
I'll  leave  my  curse  on  the  woman 

Who  slaughtered  Brok  the  Bold ! 

But  Ilda  laughed  as  she  shifted 
The  Bergen  scarf  on  her  shoulder, 
And  pointed  her  small  white  finger 

Right  up  at  the  mountain  gate; 
And  cried,  0  my  gallant  sailor. 
You're  brave  enough  to  the  fishes. 
But  the  Lappish  arrow  is  keener 

Than  the  back  of  the  thorny  skate 

The  Summer  passed,  and  the  Winter 
Came  down  from  the  icy  ocean  : 
But  back  from  the  cave  of  silver 
Returned  not  Brok  the  Bold  ; 


And  Ilda  waited  and  waited, 
And  sat  at  the  door  till  sunset, 
Aud  gazed  at  the  wild  Lapp  mountain* 
That  blackened  the  skies  of  gold. 

I  want  not  a  cave  of  silver  ! 
I  care  for  no  caves  of  silver ! 


0  far  beyond  caves  of  silver 
I  pine  for  my  Brok  the  Bold ! 

0  ye  strong  Norwegian  gallants, 

Go  seek  for  m}'  lovely  lover, 

And  bring  him  to  ring  my  finger 
With  the  round  hoop  of  gold  ! 

But  the  brave  Norwegian  gallants 
They  laughed  at  the  cruel  maiden, 
And  left  her  sitting  in  sorrow. 

Till  her  heart  and  her  face  grew  old; 
While  she  moaned  of  the  cave  of  silver, 
And  moaned  of  the  wild  Lapp  mountains- 
And  him  who  never  will  ring  her 

With  the  round  hoop  of  gold ! 


LORD  DUNDREARY  AT  BRIGHTON. 


^^WIGHTON  is  filling  fast  now.     You  see  dwoves  of  ladies  evewy  day 

^*^^     on  horseback,  widing  about  in  all  diwections.     By  the  way,  I — I 

muthn't  forget  to  mention  that  I  met  thos«  two  gii'ls  that  always 


364  THE  EAGLE. 


laugh  when  they  thee  me,  at  a  tea-fight.  One  of  'em — the  young  one 
— told  me,  when  I  was  intwoduced  to  her,^-in — in  confidence,  mind, — 
that  she  had  often  heard  of  me  and  of  my  widdles.  Tho  you  thee  I'm 
getting  quite  a  weputathun  that  way.  The  other  morning  at  Mutton's,  she 
wath  ch-chaffing  me  again,  and  begging  me  to  tell  her  the  latetht  thing  in 
widdles.  Now  I  hadn't  heard  any  mythelf  for  thome  time,  tho  I  couldn't 
give  her  any  veivy  great  novelty,  but  a  fwiend  of  mine  made  one  latht 
theason  which  I  thought  wather  neat,  tho  I  athked  her,  When  ith  a  .jar 
not  a  jar?  Thingularly  enough,  the  moment  she  heard  thith  widdle  she 
burtht  out  laughing  behind  her  pocket  halidkerchief ! 

"Good  gwacious !  what'th  the  matter  ?"  said  I.  "Have  you  ever 
heard  it  before?" 

"  Never,"  she  said,  "  in  that  form ;  do  please  tell  me  the  answer." 

So  I  told  her, — When  it  ith  a  door !  Upon,  which  she — she  went  off  again 
into  hystewics.  I — I — I — never  did  see  such  a  girl  for  laughing.  I  know 
it's  a  good  widdle,  but  I  didn't  think  it  would  have  such  an  effect  as  that. 

B}^  the  way,  Sloper  told  me  afterwards  that  he  thought  he  had  heard 
the  widdle  before,  somewhere,  but  it  was  put  in  a  different  way.  He  said 
it  was  :     When  ith  a  door  not  a  door  ? — and  the  answer,  When  it  ith  ajar ! 

I — I've  been  thinking  over  "the  matter  lately,  and  though  I  dare  thay  it 
• — d-don't  much  matter  which  way  the  question  is  put,  still — pwaps  the  last 
f-form  is  the  betht.    It — it  seems  to  me  to  wead  better.  What  do  you  think? 

Now  I  weckomember,  I  made  thuch  a  jolly  widdle  the  other  day  on 
the  Ethplanade.  I  thaw  a  fellah  with  a  big  New — Newfoundland  dog, 
and  he  inthpired  rae — the  dog,  you  know,  not  the  fellah, — he  wath  a 
lunatic.     I'm  keeping  the  widdle  but  I  don't  mind  telling  yow. 

Why  does  a  dog  waggle  his  tail  ?  Give  it  up  ?  I  think  motht  fellahs 
will  give  that  up  ! 

You  thee  the  dog  waggles  his  tail  becauth  the  dog's  stwonger  than 
the  tail.     If  ho  vvathn't  tho  tail  would  waggle  the  dog ! 

Ye-eth, — that'th  what  I  call  a  widdle.  If  I  can  only  wecolloct  him,  I 
shall  athtonish  those  two  girls  thome  of  those  days. 


THE  EAGLE. 


^                                                                       TENNYSON. 
^r^^^  


!     l;wpH  thf  cra^  witli  liook<i<l  han<lfl, 
'  :  .  '■  to  tlie  Hiin  in  loii'Iy  liiri'lf, 
Kmged  with  tho  azure  world  be  Htauds. 


Tlio  wriiiklod  Hoa  bonoath  iiiin  rrawb: 
llo  wat'lioH  from  Iiih  inoiml;iin  walls, 
And  like  a  Ihunderbull  ho  falls. 


THE  PAUPER'S  FUNERAL. 


365 


THE  BLIND  BOY. 


COLLEY    GIBBER. 


SAY  what  is  that  thing  called  Light, 
Which  I  must  ne'er  enjoy  '? 
e^   What  are  the  hlessings  of  the  sight, 
0,  tell  your  poor  blind  boy ! 


You  talk  of  wondrous  things  you  see, 
You  say  the  sun  shines  bright ; 

I  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he 
Or  make  it  day  or  night? 

My  day  or  night  myself  I  make 
Whene'er  I  sleep  or  play  ; 


And  could  I  ever  keep  awake 
With  me  't  were  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 
You  mourn  my  hapless  woe  ; 

But  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 
A  loss  I  ne'er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 
My  cheer  of  mind  destroy : 

Whilst  thus  I  sing,  I  am  a  king, 
Althougli  a  poor  blind  boy. 


THE  PAUPER'S  FUNERAL. 


CHARLES    DICKENS. 


RHERE  was  no  fire  in  the  room;  but  a  man  was  crouching  mechani' 
cally  over  the  empty  stove.  ■  An  old  woman,  too,  had  drawn  a  stoo] 
to  the  cold  hearth,  and  was  sitting  beside  him.     There  were  somfl 

4;        ragged  children  in  another  corner  ;  and  in  a  small  recess,  opposite 

J  the  door,  there  lay  upon  the  ground  something  covered  with  an  old 
blanket.  Oliver  shuddered  as  he  cast  his  eyes  towards  the  place,  and 
crept  involuntarily  closer  to  his  master  ;  for,  though  it  was  covered  up,  th« 
\>oy  felt  that  it  was  a  corpse. 

The  man's  face  was  thin  and  very  pale ;  his  hair  and  beard  were  grizzly, 
and  his  eyes  were  bloodshot.  The  old  woman's  face  was  wrinkled,  her  two 
remaining  teeth  protruded  over  her  under  lip,  and  her  eyes  were  brighl 
and  piercing. 

"  Nobody  shall  go  near  her,"  said  the  man,  starting  fiercely  up  as  tha 
undertaker  approached  the  recess.  "  Keep  back  !  d — n  you — keep  back, 
if  you've  a  life  to  lose  !" 

"  Nonsense,  my  good  man,"  said  the  undertaker,  who  was  pretty  well 
used  to  misery  in  all  its  shapes—"  nonsense  !" 

"I  tell  you,"  said  the  man,"  clenching  his  hands  and  stamping  furiously 
on  the  floor — "  I  tell  you  I  won't  have  her  put  into  the  ground.  She 
couldn't  rest  there.  The  worms  would  worry — not  eat  her — she  is  so  worn 
away." 


366  THE  PAUPER'S  FUNERAL. 


The  undertaker  offered  no  reply  to  this  raving,  but  producing  a  tape 
from  his  pocket,  knelt  down  for  a  moment  by  the  side  of  the  body. 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  man,  biu'sting  into  tears,  and  sinking  on  his  knees  at 
the  feet  of  the  dead  woman ;  "  kneel  down,  kneel  down ;  kneel  around  her 
every  one  of  you,  and  mark  my  words.  I  say  she  starved  to  death.  I 
never  knew  how  bad  she  was  till  the  fever  came  upon  her,  and  then  her 
bones  were  starting  through  the  skin.  There  was  neither  fire  nor  candle ; 
she  died  in  the  dark — in  the  dark  !  She  couldn't  even  see  her  children's 
faces,  though  we  heard  her  gasping  out  their  names.  I  begged  for  her  in 
the  streets,  and  they  sent  me  to  prison.  When  I  came  back  she  was 
dying ;  and  all  the  blood  in  my  heart  has  dried  up,  for  they  starved  her  to 
death.  I  swear  it  before  the  God  that  saw  it — they  starved  her !"  He 
twined  his  hands  in  his  hair,  and  with  a  loud  scream  rolled  grovelling  upon 
the  floor,  his  eyes  fixed,  and  the  foam  gushing  from  his  lips. 

The  ternfied  children  cried  bitterly ;  but  the  old  woman,  who  had  hith- 
erto remained  as  quiet  as  if  she  had  been  wholly  deaf  to  all  that  passed, 
menaced  them  into  silence ;  and  having  unloosened  the  man's  cravat, 
who  still  remained  extended  on  the  ground,  tottered  towards  the  under- 
taker. 

"  She  was  my  daughter,"  said  the  old  woman,  nodding  her  head  in  the 
direction  of  the  corpse,  and  speaking  with  an  idiotic  leer  more  ghastly  than 
even  the  presence  of  death  itself.  "  Lord,  Lord  !  well  it  is  strange  that  I 
who  gave  birth  to  her,  and  was  a  woman  then,  should  be  alive  and  merry 
now,  and  she  lying  so  cold  and  stiff !  Lord,  Lord  ! — to  think  of  it ;  it's  as 
good  as  a  play,  as  good  as  a  play !" 

As  the  wretched  creature  mumbled  and  chuckled  in  her  hideous  merri- 
ment, the  undertaker  turned  to  go  away. 

"  Stop,  stop !"  said  the  old  woman  in  a  loud  whisper.  "  Will  she  be 
buried  to-morrow,  or  next  day,  or  to-night  ?  I  laid  her  out,  and  I  must 
walk,  you  know.  Send  me  a  large  cloak  ;  a  good  warm  one,  for  it  is  bitter 
cold.  We  should  have  cake  and  wine,  too,  before  we  go  !  Never  mind : 
send  some  bread  ;  only  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  cup  of  water.  Shall  we  have 
Bome  bread,  dear  ?"  she  said  eagerly,  catching  at  the  undertaker's  coat  as 
he  once  more  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  undertaker  ;  "  of  course  :  anything,  everything." 
He  disengaged  himself  from  tlio  old  woman's  grasp,  and,  dragging  Oliver 
aft^r  him,  hurrif-d  away. 

Tlie  next  day — the  family  having  baen  meanwhile  relieved  with  a  lialf- 
qnartern  loaf,  and  a  piece  of  cheese,  left  with  them  by  Mr.  Bumble  liimscli 
-  -Oliver  and  his  maater  returned  to  the  miserable  abode,  where  Mr.  Bum* 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  STATE. 


367 


ble  had  already  arrived,  accompanied  by  four  men  from  the  work  house 
who  were  to  act  as  bearers.  An  old  black  cloak  had  been  thrown  over  the 
rags  of  the  old  woman  and  the  man ;  the  bare  coffin  having  been  screwed 
down,  was  then  hoisted  on  the  shoulders  of  the  bearers,  and  carried  down 
Etairs  into  the  street. 


RUTH. 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


HE  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  hath  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripened  ; — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, — 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 


But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ; — 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks. 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure,  I  said.  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  STATE? 


SIR   WILLIAM    JONES. 


>HAT  constitutes  a  state  ? 

Not    high-raised     battlement     or 

labored  mound, 
Thick  wall  or  moated  gate  ; 
Not  cities  proud  with   spires  and 

turret-crowned  ; 
Not  bays  and  broad-armed  ports. 
Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies 
ride  ; 
Not  starred  and  spangled  courts, 
Where  low-browed  baseness  wafts  perfume 
to  pride. 

No: — men,  high-minded  men, 
\\  ith  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 
In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 
25 


As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude, 

Men  who  their  duties  know. 
But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare 
maintain. 

Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow. 
And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  th« 
chain ; 

These  constitute  a  state  ; 
And  sovereign  law,  that  state's  collected  will 

O'er  thrones  and  globes  elate, 
Sita  empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill, 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown, 
The  fiend,  Dissension,  like  a  vapor  sinks ; 

And  e'en  the  all-dazzling  crown 
Hides  his  faint   rays,  and    at   her    bidding 
shrinks ; 


368 


THE  DOOR-STEP. 


Such  was  this  heaven-loved  isle, 
Than  Lesbos  fairer  and  the  Cretan  shore ! 

No  more  shall  freedom  smile  ? 
Shall  Britons  languish  and  be  men  no  more  ? 


Since  all  must  life  resign, 
Those  sweet  rewards  which  decorate  the  brave 

'T  is  folly  to  decline. 
And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave 


THE  B.EAPER. 


WILLIAM     WORDSWORTH. 


EIIOLD  her  single  in  the  field. 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass  ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain. 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain  ; 
0  listen  1  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound 


No  nightingale  did  ever  chant 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travelers  in  some  shadv  haunt 


Among  Arabian  sands ; 
No  sweeter  voice  was  ever  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird. 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  rae  what  she  sings  ? 
rerhai>s  tlie  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unliappy,  far-oft"  things, 
And  battles  long  ago  : 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain. 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ! 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  h^r  song  could  have  no  ending  ; 
I  saw  )ier  singing  at  her  work. 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; 
I  listened  till  I  had  my  fill ; 
And  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


TIfE  DOOR-STEP. 


EDMUND   CLARENCE    STEDMAN. 


?Wilil^[Ii;conferencemecting  through  at  last,  I  Than  I,  who  strjipcd  Ixforc  thcin  all 

Who  longed  to  see  nil' get  thr  iiiiK^.n, 


j 


Wo  boys  around  the  vestry  waited, 
.  floe  the  girls  come  trijiping  jiast 
Like    Hnow-birds    willing    to    bn 
inatod. 


Not  braver  ho  that  leaps  tho  wall, 
By  level  musket-flashes  litton, 


But  no,  HJio  bluslied  and  took  my  arml 
Wo  lotlhe  old  folks  have  tho  highway, 

And  Htartod  lowanl  tho  Mapio  Farm, 
Along  a  kind  of  Iovoth'  by-way. 


THE  DOOR-STEP. 


369 


I  can't  remember  what  we  said, 
'Twas  nothing  worth  a  song  or  story, 

Vet  that  rude  path  by  which  wo  sped 
Seemed  all  transformed  and  in  a  glorv. 


The  little  hand  oufpide  her  mnfF — 
0  sculptor,  if  you  could  but  mould  iti 

So  sligiitly  touched  my  jacket-cuff, 
To  keep  it  warm  I  had  to  hold  iU 


Tiij  sn  )w  wa;  crisp  l».-neath  our  lect, 
The  moon  was  full,  the  fields  were  gleaming ; 

Py  hood  and  tippet  sheltered  sweet 
Her    face   with     youth     and   health   waa 
beaming. 


To  Lave  her  with  me  there  alone, 
'Twas   love   and   fear   and   triumul 
blended : 

At  last  we  reached  the  foot-worn  stona 
Where  that  delicious  journey  ended. 


370 


REGULUS  TO  THE  ROMAN  SENATE. 


She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  hood, 

And  with  a  "  Thank  you  Ned,"  dissembled, 

But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 
With  what  a  daring  wish  I  trembled. 

A  cloud  passed  kindly  overhead, 

The  moon  was  slyly  peeping  through  it, 

fet  hid  its  face,  as  if  it  said, 
"  Come,  now  or  never,  do  it,  do  it !" 


I  My  lips  till  then  had  onh'  known 
The  kiss  of  mother  and  of  sister, 

I  But  somehow  full  upon  her  own 
I       Sweet,  rosy,  darling  mouth — I  kissed  her' 

■  Perhaps  'twas  boyish  love,  yet  still, 

I       0  listless  woman  !  weary  lover ! 

i  To  feel  once  more  that  fresh  wild  thrill, 

I      I'd  give — But  who  can  live  youth  over  ? 


SONNET  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE. 


ELIZABETH    B.    BROWNING. 


§IRST  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only 

kissed 
'The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I 

write  ; 
And,  ever  since,  it  grew  more  dean  and 

white. 
Slow  to  world-greetings,  quick  with  its 
"Olist!" 

When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  amethyst 
I  could  not  wear  here,  plainer  to  my  sight 
Than  that  first  kiss.     The  second  passed  in 
height 


The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and  hail 

missed. 
Half  falling  on  the  hair.     0,  beyond  meed ! 
That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which   love's 

own  crown. 
With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  j)recede. 
The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 
In  perfect,  purple  state;    since   when,   in 

deed, 
I  have  been  jiroud,  and  said,  "  My  love,  my 

own !" 


REGULUS  TO  THE  ROMAN  SENATE. 


iL  does  it  become  me,  0  Senators  of  lioino, — ill  does  it  become  Regii- 
lus,  after  having  so  often  stood  in  this  venerable  assembly  clothed 
with  the  supremo  dignity  of  the  Re])ublic,  to  stand  before  you  a 
captive, — the  captive  of  Carthage.  Though  outwardly  I  am  free, 
tlipugh  no  fetters  encumber  the  limbs,  or  gall  the  flesh, — yet  the 
heaviest  of  chains, — the  pledge  of  a  Roman  Consul, — makes  mo  the 
bondsman  of  the  Carthaginians.  They  have  my  promise  to  return  to  th(^m, 
in  the  event  of  the  failure  of  this,  their  embassy.  My  life  is  at  their 
mercy.  My  honor  is  my  own; — a  possession  wliicli  no  reverse  of  rortmio 
r-an  joojmrd  ;  a  flamr^  whii^'h  iinprisoiunr-nt  cannot  stilli',  time  caniiMt  dim, 
death  cannot  oxtinguish. 

Of  the  train  of  disasters   which  followed  close  on    the   unexampled 
successes  of  our  arms, — of  thu  bitter  fate  which  swept  off'  the  flower  of 


REGULUS  TO  THE  ROiMAN  SENATE.  371 

our  soldiery,  and  consigned  me,  your  General,  wounded  and  senseless,  to 
Carthaginian  keeping, — I  will  not  speak.  For  live  years,  a  rigorous  cap- 
tivity has  been  my  portion.  For  five  years,  the  society  of  family  and 
friends,  the  dear  amenities  of  home,  the  sense  of  freedom,  and  the  sight  of 
country,  have  been  to  me  a  recollection  and  a  dream, — no  more.  But 
during  that  period  Rome  has  retrieved  her  defeats.  She  has  recovered 
under  Metellus  what  under  Regulus  she  lost.  She  has  routed  armies.  She 
has  taken  unnumbered  prisoners.  She  has  struck  terror  into  the  heart  of 
the  Cartliaginians,  who  have  now  sent  me  hither  with  their  ambassadors  to 
sue  for  [)eace,  and  to  propose  that,  in  exchange  for  me,  your  former  Consul, 
a  thousand  common  prisoners  of  war  shall  be  given  up.  You  have  heard 
the  ambassadors.  Their  intimations  of  some  unimaginable  horror,  I  know 
not  what,  impending  over  myself,  should  I  fail  to  induce  you  to  accept  their 
terms,  have  strongly  moved  your  sympathies  in  my  behalf.  Another 
appeal,  wiiich  I  would  you  might  have  been  spared,  has  lent  force  to  their 
suit.  A  wife  and  children,  threatened  with  widowhood  and  orphanage, 
weeping  and  despairing,  have  knelt  at  your  feet  on  the  very  threshold  of 
the  Senate-chamber  : — Conscript  Fathej's  !  shall  not  Regulus  be  saved  ? 
Must  he  return  to  Carthage  to  meet  tlie  cruelties  which  the  ambassadors 
brandish  before  our  eyes?     With  one  voice  you  answer,  No  ! 

Countrymen  !  Friends  !  For  all  that  I  have  suffered, — for  all  that 
I  may  have  to  suffer, — I  am  repaid  in  the  compensation  of  this  moment ! 
Unfortunate  you  may  hold  me ;  but  0,  not  undeserving !  Your  confidence 
in  my  honor  survives  all  the  ruin  that  adverse  fortune  could  inflict.  You 
have  not  forgotten  the  past.  Republics  are  not  ungrateful.  May  the 
thanks  I  cannot  utter  bring  down  blessings  from  the  gods  on  you  and 
Rome ! 

Conscript  Fathers !  There  is  but  one  course  to  be  pursued.  Abandon 
all  thought  of  peace.  Reject  the  overtures  of  Carthage.  Reject  them 
wholly  and  unconditionally.  What !  giVe  back  to  her  a  thousand  able- 
bodied  men,  and  receive  in  return  this  one  attenuated,  war-worn,  fever- 
wasted  frame, — this  weed,  whitened  in  a  dungeon's  darkness,  pale  and 
sapless,  which  no  kindness  of  the  sun,  no  softness  of  the  summer  breeze, 
can  ever  restore  to  health  and  vigor  ?  It  must  not, — it  shall  not  be !  0  ! 
were  Regulus  what  he  was  once,  before  captivity  had  unstrung  his  sinews 
and  enervated  his  limbs,  he  might  pause, — he  might  proudly  think  he  were 
well  worth  a  thousand  of  the  foe;  he  might  say,  "  Make  the  exchange! 
Rome  shall  not  lose  by  it!"  But  now,  alas!  now  'tis  gone, — that  impetu- 
osity of  strength,  which  could  once  make  him  a  leader  indeed,  to  penetrate 
%  phalanx  or  guide  a  pursuit.     His  very  armor  would  be  a  burthen  now. 


372 


LEFT  ALONE  AT  EIGHTY. 


His  battle-cry  would  be  drowned  in  the  din  of  the  onset.  His  sword  would 
fall  harmless  on  his  opponents  shield.  But  if  ho  cannot  live,  he  can  at 
least  die  for  his  country.  Do  not  deny  him  this  supreme  consolation. 
Consider :  every  indijTnity,  every  torture,  which  Carthage  shall  heap  on 
his  dying  hours,  will  be  better  than  a  trumpet's  call  to  your  armies.  They 
will  remember  c.'ly  Regulus,  their  fellow-soldier  and  their  leader.  Thev 
will  regr.rd  only  his  services  to  the  Republic.  Tunis,  Sardinia,  Sicily,— 
every  well-fought  field,  won  by  his  blood  and  theirs — will  flash  on  their 
remembrance,  and  kindle  their  avenging  wrath.  And  so  shall  Regulus, 
though  dead,  fight  as  he  never  fought  before  against  the  foe. 

Conscript  Fathers !  There  is  another  theme.  My  family, — forgive 
the  thought !  To  you  and  to  Rome  I  confide  them.  I  leave  them  no 
legacy  but  my  name,— no  testament  but  my  example. 

Ambassadors  of  Carthage !  I  have  spoken,  though  not  as  you 
expected.  I  am  your  captive.  Lead  me  back  to  whatever  fate  may  await 
me.  Doubt  not  that  you  shall  find,  to  Roman  hearts,  country  is  dearer 
than  life,  and  integrity  more  precious  than  freedom ! 


LEFT  ALONE  A  T  EIGHTY. 


ALICE    ROBBINS. 


'W*: 


FIAT  flid  j'ou  say,  dear, — break  i'a^^t  ? 
Somehow  I've  sle7)t  too  late; 
^  You  are  very  kind,  dear  Effie  ; 
Oo  tell  them  not  to  wait. 
I'll  dres.s  as  rjuick  a.s  ever  I  can, 

My  old  hands  tremble  sore. 
And  Polly,  who  used  to  help,  dear 
heart, 
Lies  t'other  side  of  the  door. 


Put  U[)  the  old  \<\\>i-,  deary, 

I  couldn't  smoko  to-djiy  : 
I'm  sort  o'  dazed  and  frightened, 

And  don't  know  what  to  say. 
It*n  lonesome  in  the  liouso  here. 

And  lonesome  f»ut  o'  <loor — 
I  never  knew  what  lonesome  mf  ant 

In  all  my  life  before. 

The  bees  j^o  Imrninin^^  Ihf  wbob'  day  long. 
And  the  first  June  rose  has  blown; 


And  I  am  eighty,  dear  Lord,  today, 

Too  old  to  be  left  alone ! 
Oil,  h,.urt  <ifli)ve  :    so  still  and  coM, 

Oh,  previous  li[).s  so  white! 
For  the  first  sad  hours  in  sixtj'  years, 

You  wore  out  of  mj'  reach  last  nii;lit. 

You've  cut  the  flower.     You're  v^ry  kind; 

She  rooted  it  last  May. 
It  was  only  a  slip  ;   I  pulled  the  ro.'^e, 

And  threw  the  stem  away. 
But  she,  sweet,  thrifty  soul,  bent  down. 

And  planted  it  where  she  stood; 
"Dear,   maybe  the  llow<'rs   are  living.". si  ■ 
said, 

"  Asleep  in  this  bit  of  wood." 

I  can't  rest,  dear — I  caiiiioi  rest  ; 

Let  the  (dd  man  have  his  wjl], 
And  waniler  from  pon  h  to  ganlen-post  — 

The  house  is  so  deathlv  still ; — 


SOMETIME. 


Wander,  and  long  for  a  siglit  of  the  gate 

She  has  left  ajar  for  me ; 
We  had  got  so  used  to  each  other,  dear, 

So  used  to  each  other,  you  see. 

Sixty  years,  and  so  wise  and  good, 

She  made  me  a  better  man ; 
From  the  moment  I  kissed  her  fair  young  face. 

Our  lover's  life  began. 
And  seven  fine  boys  she  has  given  me, 

And  out  of  the  seven  not  one 
But  the  noblest  father  in  all  the  land 

Would  be  proud  to  call  his  son._ 

Oh,  well,  dear  Lord,  I'll  be  patient ! 
But- 1  feel  sore  broken  up  ; 


At  eighty  years  it's  an  awesome  thing 

To  drain  such  a  bitter  cup. 
I  know  there's  Joseph,  and  John,  and  Hal 

And  four  good  men  beside  ; 
But  a  hundred  sons  couldn't  be  to  me. 

Like  the  woman  I  made  my  bride. 

My  little  Polly-  so  bright  and  fair ! 

So  winsome  and  good  ami  sweet  I 
She  had  roses  twined  in  her  sunny  hair. 

And  white  shoes  upon  her  feet ; 
And  I  held  her  hand — was  it  yesterday 

That  we  stood  up  to  be  wed  ? 
And — no,  I  remember,  I'm  eighty  to-day, 

And  my  dear  wife  Polly  is  dead. 


SOMETIME. 


MARY    P.ILEY    SMITH. 


'OMETIME,    when    all    life's    lessons 
have  been  learned, 
And  sun  and  stars  forevermore  have 

set. 
The  things    which  our  weak  judg- 
ments here  have  spurned — 
The  things   o'er  which  we  grieved 
with  lashes  wet — 
Will  flash  before  us  out  of  life's  dark  night. 
As  stars  shine  most  in  deepest  tints  of  blue, 
And  we  shall  see  how  all  God's  plans  were 
right. 
And  how  what  seemed  reproof  was  love 
most  true. 

And  we  shall  see  how  while  we  frown  and 
sigh, 

God's  plans  go  on  as  best  for  you  and  me  ; 
How,  when  we  called,  he  heeded  not  our  cry, 

Because  his  wisdom  to  the  end  could  see. 
And  e'en  as  prudent  parents  disallowed 

Too  much  of  sweet  to  craving  babyhood. 
So  God,  perhaps,  is  keeping  from  us  now 

Life's  sweetest   things,  because  it  seemeth 
good. 

And  if  sometimes  commingled  with  life's  wine, 
We   find   the  wormwood,  and   rebel   and 

shrink. 


Be  sure  a  wiser  hand  than  yours  or  mme 
Pours  out  this  potion  for  our  lips  to  drink ; 

And  if  some  friend  we  love  is  lying  low 
Where  human  kisses  cannot  reach  his  face, 

Oh,  do  not  blame  the  loving  Father  so. 
But  wear  your  sorrows  with  obedient  grace. 

And  you  shall  shortlj'  know  that  lengthened 
breath 

Is  not  the  sweetest  gift  God  sends  his  friends, 
And  that  sometimes  the  sable  pall  of  death 

Conceals  the  fairest  boon  his  love  can  send. 
If  we  could  push  ajar  the  gates  of  life, 

And  stand  within  and  all  God's  workings 
see, 
We  could  interpret  all  this  doubt  and  strife, 

And  for  each  mystery  could  find  a  key. 

But  not  to-day.     Then  be  content,  poor  heart  j 
God's  plans,  like  lilies,  pure  and  white  un- 
fold; 
We  must  not  tear  the  close  shut  leaves  apart — 

Time  will  reveal  the  calyxes  of  gold  ; 
And  if  through  patient  toil  we  reach  the  land 
Where  tired  feet,  with  sandals  loosed,  may 
rest. 
When  we  shall  clearly  know  and  understand, 
I  think  that  we  will  say,  "  God  knew  the 
best." 


^74 


SONG  OF  BIRDS. 


SONG  OF  BIRDS. 


THOMAS   HEYWOOD. 


\  wK,  clouds,  away !  and  welcome,  day ! 

With  night  wo  hanish  sorrow; 
.Sweet  air,  blow  soft  I  mount  lark,  aloft ! 
To  give  my  love  goo<l-morrow. 
Wings  from  the  win'l  to  jileane  her  mind, 
Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow; 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing!  nightingale,  sing! 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow  : 
To  give  my  love  good -morrow 
Notes  from  them  all  I'll  borrow. 


Wake  from  thy  rest,  robin  red-breast! 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow  ! 

And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  good  morrow. 

Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bu.sh, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock  sjiarrow' 

You  pretty  elves,  among  yourselves. 
Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow 
To  give  my  love  good -morrow 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow. 


MR.  PICKWICK  IN  THE  WRONG  ROOM. 


375 


WIDOW  MALONK 


CHARLES   LEVER. 


gW^ID  you  hear  of  the  Widow  Malonf 
J^:  Ohone ! 

jcVViV     Who  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone, 
w  i>  Alone ! 

4  0,  she  melted  the  hearts 

¥         Of  the  swains  in  them  parts : 
"j      So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone. 

Of  lovers  she  had  a  full  score, 

Or  more, 
And  fortunes  they  all  had  galore, 
In  store ; 
From  the  minister  down 
To  the  clerk  of  the  Crown 
All  were  courting  the  Y/idow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone. 

But  so  modest  was  Mistress  Malone, 

'T  was  known 
That  no  one  could  see  her  alone, 
Ohone ! 
Let  them  ogle  and  sigh, 
They  could  ne'er  catch  her  eye, 
So  bashfiil  the  Widow  Malone, 
Ohone ! 
So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone. 


Till  one  Misther  O'Brien,  from  Clare, 

(How  quare  I 
It's  little  for  blushing  they  care 

Down  there,) 
Put  his  arm  round  her  waist, — 
Gave  ten  kisses  at  laste, — 
"  0,"  says  he,  "you're  my  Molly  Malone, 

My  own ! 
0,"  says  he,  "  you're  my  Molly  Malone  !" 

And  the  widow  they  all  thought  so  shy, 

My  eye  I 
Ne'er  thought  of  a  simper  or  sigh, — 

For  why  ? 
But,  "  Lucius,"  says  she, 
"  Since  you've  now  made  so  free. 
You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone." 

There's  a  moral  contained  in  my  song. 

Not  wrong ; 
And  one  comfort,  it's  not  very  long, 
But  strong, — 
If  for  widows  you  die. 
Learn  to  kiss,  not  to  sigh  ; 
For  they're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malona, 

Ohone ! 
0,  they're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone ! 


MB.  PICKWICK  IN  THE  WRONG  ROOM. 


CHARLES    DICKENS. 


rm- 


IeAR  me,  it's  time  to  go  to  bed.     It  will  never  do,  sitting  here,     i 
^li§     shall  be  pale  to-morrow,  Mr.  Pickwick  !" 
M^^        At  the  bare  notion  of  such  a  calamity,  Mr.  Peter  Magnus  rang 
i         the  bell  for  the  chambermaid ;  and  the  striped  bag,  the  red  bag, 
*         the   leather  hat-box,  and  the  brown-paper  parcel,  having  been 
conveyed  to  his  bed-room,  he  retired  in  company  with  a  japanned  candle- 
stick to  one  side  of  the  house,  while  Mr.  Pickwick,  and  another  japanned 


376  ^^^-  PICKWICK  IN  THE  WRONG  ROOM. 

candlestick,  were  conducted  through  a  multitude  of  tortuous  windings,  to 
another. 

"  This  is  your  room,  sir,"  said  the  chambermaid. 

"  Very  well,"  repUed  Mr.  Pickwick,  looking  round  him.  It  was  a 
tolerably  large  double-bedded  room,  with  a  fire ;  upon  the  whole,  a  more 
comfortable-looking  apartment  than  Mr.  Pickwick's  short  experience  of  the 
accommodations  of  the  Great  White  Horse  had  led  him  to  expect. 

"  Nobody  sleeps  in  the  other  bed,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir." 

"  Very  good.  Tell  my  servant  to  bring  me  up  some  hot  water  at  half- 
past  eight  in  the  morning,  and  that  I  shall  not  want  him  any  more  to- 
night." 

"  Yes,  sir."  And  bidding  Mr.  Pickwick  good-night,  the  chambermaid 
retired,  and  left  him  alone. 

Mr.  Pickwick  sat  himself  down  in  a  chair  before  the  fire,  and  fell  into 
a  train  of  rambling  meditations,  when  he  recollected  he  had  left  his  watch 
on  the  table  down  stairs.  The  possibility  of  going  to  sleep,  unless  it  were 
ticking  gently  beneath  his  pillow,  or  in  his  watch-pocket  over  his  head, 
had  never  entered  Mr.  Pickwick's  brain.  So  as  it  was  pretty  late  now,  and 
he  was  unwilling  to  ring  his  bell  at  that  hour  of  the  night,  he  slipped  on 
his  coat,  of  which  he  had  just  divested  himself,  and  taking  the  japanned 
candlestick  in  his  hand,  walked  quietly  down  stairs. 

The  more  stairs  Mr.  Pickwick  went  down,  the  more  stairs  there  seemed 
to  be  to  descend,  and  again  and  again,  when  Mr.  Pickwick  got  into  some 
narrow  passage,  and  began  to  congratulate  himself  on  having  gained  the 
ground-floor,  did  another  flight  of  stairs  appear  before  his  astonished 
eyes.  At  last  he  reached  a  stone  hall,  which  he  remembered  to  have  seen 
when  he  entered  the  house.  Passage  after  passage  did  he  explore ;  room 
after  room  did  he  peep  into;  at  length,  just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of 
giving  up  the  search  in  despair,  he  opened  the  dooi  of  the  identical  room 
in  which  ho  had  spent  the  evening,  and  boliold  liis  missing  pro[)erty  on  the 
table. 

Mr.  Pickwick  seized  the  watch  in  triunijili,  and  ]iroceeded  to  retrace 
his  steps  to  his  bed-chamber.  If  his  progress  downwards  had  been 
attended  with  difficulties  and  uncertiiinty,  his  journey  back  was  infinitely 
more  perplexing,  lie  was  reduced  to  the  verge  of  despair,  when  an  open 
door  attracted  his  attention.  He  peeped  in — right  at  last.  There  were 
the  two  beds,  whoso  situation  he  perfectly  remembered,  and  the  fire  still 
burning.  His  candle,  not  a  long  one  wlion  ho  first  received  it,  had 
flickered  away  in  the  drifts  of  air  through  which  he  had  pa.'^sed,  and  sank 


MR.  riCKWICK  IN  THE  WRONQ  ROOM.  577 

Into  the  socket,  just  as  lie  closed  the  door  after  liim.  "  No  matter,"  said 
Mr.  Pickwick,  "  I  can  undress  myself  just  as  well  by  the  light  of  the  fire." 

"  It  is  the  best  idea,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  to  himself,  smiling  till  he  almost 
cracked  the  night-cap  strings — "It  is  the  best  idea,  my  losing  myself  iji 
this  place,  and  wandering  about  those  staircases,  that  I  ever  heard  of.  Droll, 
droll,  very  droll."  Here  Mr.  Pickwick  smiled  again,  a  broader  smile  than 
before,  and  was  about  to  continue  the  process  of  undressing,  in  the  best 
humor,  when  he  was  suddenly  stopped  by  a  most  unexpected  interruption : 
to  wit,  the  entrance  into  the  room  of  some  person  with  a  candle,  who,  after 
locking  the  door,  advanced  to  the  dressing-table,  and  sot  down  the  light 
upon  it. 

Mr.  Pickwick  almost  fainted  with  horror  and  dismay.  Standing  before 
the  dressing-glass  was  a  middle-aged  lady  in  yellow  curl-papers,  busily 
engaged  in  brushing  what  ladies  call  their  "back  hair."  However  the 
unconscious  middle-aged  lady  came  into  that  room,  it  was  quite  clear  that 
she  contemplated  remaining  there  for  the  night ;  for  she  had  brought  a 
rushlight  and  shade  with  her,  which,  with  praiseworthy  precaution 
against  fire,  she  had  stationed  in  a  basin  on  the  floor,  where  it  was  glim- 
mering away  like  a  gigantic  lighthouse,  in  a  particularly  small  piece  of 
water. 

"Bless  my  soul,"  thought  Mr.  Pickwick,  "how  very  dreadful!" 

"  Hem  !"  said  the  lady;  and  in  went  Mr.  Pickwick's  head  with  auto- 
maton-like rapidity. 

"  I  never  met  with  anything  so  awful  as  this," — thought  poor  Mr. 
Pickwick,  the  cold  perspiration  starting  in  drops  upon  his  night-cap. 
"Never.    This  is  fearful." 

It  was  quite  impossible  to  resist  the  urgent  desire  to  see  what  was 
going  forward.  So  out  went  Mr.  Pickwick's  head  again.  The  prospect 
was  worse  than  before.  The  middle-aged  lady  had  finished  arranging  her 
hair,  and  carefully  enveloped  it  in  a  muslin  night-cap  with  a  small  plaited 
border,  and  was  gazing  pensively  on  the  fire. 

"  This  matter  is  growing  alarming  " — reasoned  Mr.  Pickwic  k  with 
himself.  "  I  can't  allow  things  to  go  on  in  this  way.  By  the  self-possession 
of  that  lady,  it's  clear  to  me  that  I  must  have  come  into  the  wrong  room. 
If  I  call  out,  she'll  alarm  the  house,  but  if  I  remain  here,  the  cons'^uence 
will  be  still  more  frightful!" 

He  shrank  behind  the  curtains,  and  called  out  very  loudly : — 

"  Ha-hum." 

That  the  lady  started  at  this  unexpected  sound  was  evident,  by  her 
falling  up  against  the  rush-light  shade ;  that  she  persuaded  herself  it  must 


378  MR.  PICKWICK  IN  THE  WRONG  ROOM. 

have  been  the  effect  of  imagination  was  equally  clear,  for  when  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, under  the  impression  that  she  had  fainted  away,  stone-dead  from 
fright,  ventured  to  peep  out  again,  she  was  gazing  pensively  on  the  fire 
as  before. 

"  Most  extraordinary  female  this,"  thought  Mr.  Pickwick,  popping  in 
again.     "Ha-hum." 

"Gracious  Heaven  !"  said  the  middle-aged  lad}-,  "what's  that?" 

"  It's — it's — only  a  gentleman,  Ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  from  behind 
the  curtains. 

*' A  gentleman !"  said  the  lady  with  a  terrific  scream. 

"  It's  all  over,"  thought  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"  A  strange  man,"  shrieked  the  lady.  Another  instant  and  the  house 
would  be  alarmed.    Her  garments  rustled  as  she  rushed  towards  the  door. 

"Ma'am" — said  Mr.  Pickwick,  thrusting  out  his  head,  in  tha 
extremity  of  his  desperation,  "  Ma'am." 

"  Wretch," — said  the  lady,  covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  "  what 
do  you  want  here  ?" 

"Nothing,  Ma'am — nothing  whatever.  Ma'am;"  said  Mr.  Pickwick, 
earnestly. 

"Nothing  !"  said  the  lady,  looking  up. 

"  Nothing,  Ma'am,  upon  my  honor,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  nodding  his 
head  so  energetically,  that  the  tassel  of  his  night-cap  danced  ?.gain.  "  I  am 
ahnost  ready  to  sink.  Ma'am,  because  of  the  confusion  of  addressing  a  lady 
in  my  night-cap  (here  the  lady  hastily  snatched  off  her's),  but  I  can't  get 
it  off.  Ma'am,  (here  Mr.  Pickwick  gave  it  a  tremendous  tug  in  proof  of  the 
statement).  It  is  evident  to  me,  Ma'am,  now,  that  I  have  mistaken  this 
bed-room  for  my  own.  I  had  not  been  here  five  minutes,  Ma'am,  when 
you  suddenly  entered  it." 

"  If  this  improbable  story  be  really  true,  sir," — said  the  lady,  sobbing 
violently,  "you  will  leave  it  instantly." 

"  I  will,  Ma'am,  with  the  greatest  pleasure," — I'cplied  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"  Instantly,  sir,"  said  the  lady. 

"  Certainly,  Ma'am,"  interposed  Mr.  Pickwick,  very  quickly.  "  Cer- 
tainly, Ma'am.  I — I — am  very  sorry,  Ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  making 
his  appearance  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  "  to  have  been  the  innocent  occa- 
won  of  this  alarm  and  emotion;  deeply  sorry,  Ma'am." 

The  lady  pointed  to  the  door. 

"I  am  cxooodingly  sorry.  Ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  bowing  very  low. 

"  If  you  are,  sir,  you  will  at  once  leave  the  room,"  said  the  lady. 

"  Immediately,  Ma'am ;  this    instant.    Ma'am,"   said    Mr.    Pickwick, 


THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE. 


379 


opening  the  door,  and  dropping  both  his  shoes  with  a  loud  crash  in  so 
doing. 

"  I  trust,  Ma'arn,"  resumed  Mr.  Pickwick,  gathering  up  his  shoes,  and 
turning  round  to  bow  again,  "  I  trust,  Ma'am,  that  my  unblemished  charac- 
ter, and  the  devoted  respect  I  entertain  for  your  sex,  will  plead  as  some 
slight  excuse  for  this" — but  before  Mr.  Pickwick  could  conclude  the 
sentence,  the  lady  had  thrust  him  into  the  passage,  and  locked  and  bolted 
the  door  behind  him. 


MERCY. 


W.    SHAKSPEARE. 


^IIE  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained  ; 
It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from 

heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice 

blessed ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him 
that  takes : 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown  ; 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power 
Th'  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings  ; 


But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway, — 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings. 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likesi 

God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  .1  ew 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  thi.s  — 
That  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation  :  we  do  pray  for  mercy . 
And  that  same  prayer  should  teach  us  all  to 

render 
The  deeds  of  mercy. 


THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE. 


CAROLINE    E.    NORTON. 
jf^ORD  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king, 


-4  (Hurry!) 

7!f   That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suf- 
fering. 
And  pined  for  the  comfort  his  voice 
would  bring ; 
(0;  ride  as  though  you  were  flying!) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown-jewels  of  ruby  and  j)earl ; 
And  liis  Rose  of  the  Isles  is  dying. 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed;  (Hurry!) 
Each  one  mounted  a  gallant  steed 


Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need , 

(0  !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying  1 ) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  flank ; 
Worn-out  chargers  struggled  and  sank  • 
Bridles  were  slackened,  and  girtns  were  burst 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode  first, 
For  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying. 

His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one ;  (Hurry !} 
They  have  fainted,  and  faltered,  and  tome- 
ward  gone ; 
His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone. 
For  strength  and  foi  courage  crying. 
The  king  looked  back  at  that  faithful  ch;M: 


380 


THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE. 


Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smiled. 
They  passed  the  draw-bridge  with  clattering 

din: 
Then  he  dropped ;  and  the  king  alone  rode  in 
Where  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying. 


None  welcomed  the  king  from  that  weary 

ride; 
For,  dead  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day, 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 
Who  had  yearned  for  his  voice  while  dying. 


■n»e  king  1)1<!W  a  blant  on  hi«  bugle  horn : 

(Hilonrf.') 
No  an-wfir  rarn",  but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  frhn  rotarnftd  on  the  cold  j^ray  morn, 

Tjiko  tho  breath  of  a  spirit  Bigbing. 
Th«  ca«tln  portal  fltnod  grimly  wide  ; 


The  panting  Hteed  with  a  drooping  rreflt 

Stood  weary. 
The   king    returned    from    Iht    eliambcT    ol 

rent, 
The  tliiclc  ssbs  choking  in  liis  breast; 
And,  tliat  ''lunib  eom])anion  eyeing. 


BETSY  AND  I  ARE  OUT. 


381 


The  tears  gushed  forth,  which  he  strove  to 

check ; 
He  bov/ed  his  head  on  his  charger's  neck ; 


"  0,  steed,  that  every  nerve  didst  strain. 
Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain. 
To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying  f" 


THF  NYMPH'S  REPLY  TO  THE  SHEPHERD. 


SIR    WALTER    RALEIGH. 


^jjiF  that  the  world  and  love  were  young,      '  Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
fcj^     And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue,   ;  Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  an.l  iliy  posies 
^^     These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move  <  Soon  break,  soon  with.  r.  soon  forgotten,- 
A     To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love.  j  In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Ig       But  time  drives  flocks  iroiii  held  to  fold,  ;  Thy  belt  ot  straw  and  ivy  buds. 
When  rivers  rage,  and  rocks  grow  cold;  j  Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, — 


And  Philomel  becometh  dumb. 
And  all  complain  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields ; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 


All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  youth  last,  a-id  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need. 
Then  those  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 


BETSY  AND  I  ARE  OUT. 


WILL.     M.    CARLETON. 


TMk. 


''*■•  RAW    up    the    papers,  lawyer,    and  '  So  I  have  talked  with  Betsy,  and  Betsy  has 
make  'era  good  and  stout,  talked  with  me  ; 

■f  Ji-f      For  things  at  home  are  cross-ways,  !  And  we've  agreed  together  that  we  can  never 
<TJ)  and  Betsy  and  I  are  out, —         '  agree ; 

1^     "We    who  have   worked    together   so  |  Not  that  we've  catched  each  other   in  any 
long  as  man  and  wife  ]  terrible  crime  ; 

Must  pull  in  single  harness  the  rest  1  We've  been  a  gatherin'  this  for  year^,  a  littl« 
of  our  nat'ral  life.  j  at  a  time. 

^7/hat  IS  the  matter,'   says  you!*     1  swan  ]  There  was  a  stock  of  temper  we   both  had 
it's  hard  to  tell !  for  a  start ; 


Most    i  the  years  behind  \is  we've  passed  by 

very  well ; 
I  have  no  other  woman — she  has  no  other 


Although  we  ne'er  suspected  'twould  take  us 

two  apart ; 
I  had  my  various  failings,  bred  in  the  flesh 

and  bone. 
Unly  we've  lived  together  as  long  as  ever  we      _A.nd   Betsy,   like    all   good    women,  had   a 

temper  of  her  own. 


382 


BETSY  AND  I  ARE  OUT. 


The  first  thing,  I  remember,  whereon  we 
"disagreed, 

Was  aomethin'  concerning  heaven — a  differ- 
ence in  our  creed ; 

We  arged  the  thing  at  breakfast — we  arg'ed 
the  thing  at  tea — 

And  the  more  we  arg'ed  the  question,  the 
more  we  couldn't  agree. 

And  the  next  that  I  remember  was  when  we 

lost  a  cow ; 
She  had  kicked  the  bucket,  for  certain — the 

question  was  only — How  ? 
I  held  my  opinion,  and  Betsy  another  had  ; 
And  when  we  were  done  a  talkin',  we  both 

of  us  was  mad. 

And  the  next  that  I  remember,  it  started  in 

a  joke  ; 
But  for  full  a  week  it  lasted  and  neither  of 

U8  spoke. 
And  the  next  was  when   I  fretted  because 

she  broke  a  bowl ; 
And  she  said  I  was  mean  and  stingy,  and 

hadn't  any  soul. 

And  80  the  thing  kept  workin',  aiiJ  all  the 

self-same  way  ; 
Always  somethin'   to   ar'ge   and   something 

sharp  to  say, — 
And   down    on  us   came   the    neighbors,    a 

couple  o'  dozen  strong. 
And  lent  their  kindest  sarvice  to  help  the 

thing  along. 

And   there   have   been   days   together — and 

many  a  weary  week — 
When  both  of  us  were  cross  and  spunky, 

and  both  too  jiroud  to  speak  ; 
And  I  have  been  thinkin'  and  thinkin',  the 

whole  of  the  Humincr  and  fall, 
Jf  I  can't  live  kind  with  a  woman,  why,  then 

I  won't  at  all. 

And   HO   I'v":   talked  with  Betsy,  and  Betsy 

ha-s  talked  with  mt ; 
And  we  have  agreed  together  tliat  wo  can 

never  agree ; 
And  what  i.s  hers  shall  ]>i>  lierH,  and  what  is 

mine  shall  bo  min«' , 
And  ni  put  it  in  the  agreement  and  take  it 

to  her  to  sign. 


Write  on  the  paper,  lawyer — the  very  first 

paragraph — 
Of  all  ihe  farm  and  live  stock,  she  shall  have 

her  half; 
For  she  has  helped  to  earn  it  through  many 

a  weary  day, 
And    it's    nothin'    more    than    justice    that 

Betsy  has  her  pay. 

Give  her  the  house  and  homestead ;  r   man 

can  thrive  and  roam, 
But    women    are    wretched    critters,   unless 

they  have  a  home. 
And  I  have  always  determined,  and  never 

failed  to  say, 
That  Betsy  never  should  want  a  home,  il  i 

was  taken  away. 

There's  a   little  hard   money  besides,  that's 

drawin'  tol'rable  pay, 
A  couple  of  hundred  dollars  laid   by  fo"-  a 

rainy  day, — 
Safe  in  the  hands  of  good  men,  and  easy  to 

get  at  ; 
Put  in  another  clause  there,  and  give  her  ail 

of  that. 

I  see  that  you  are  smiling,  sir,  at  my  givin' 

her  so  much  ; 
Yes,  divorce  is  cheap,  sir,  but  I  take  no  stock 

in  such  ; 
True  and  fair  I  married  her,  when  she  was 

blythe  and  young. 
And  Betsy  was  always  good  to  me  exccptin' 

with  her  tongue. 

When  I  was  young  as  you,  sir,  and  not  so 

smart,  perhaps. 
For  me  she  mittened  a  lawyer,  and  several 

other  chaps ; 
And  all  of  'em  was  flustered,  and  fairly  taken 

down. 
And  for  a  time  I  was  counted   the  lucki"sl 

man  in  town. 

Once  when  1  had  a  fever — I  won't  forgri  it 

soon  — 
I    was  hot  as  a  basted  turkey  and  crazy  as  i 

loon— 
Never  an   hour  went  by  me  when  sho  wut 

out  of  sight ; 


^ 


^ 

< 

--^ 

^H 

^^ 

>. 

-> 

r> 

-ii 

r— ' 

< 

M 

X    •::: 


"^     c 


p 

fc 


BETSY  DESTROYS  THE  PAPER. 


383 


She  nursed  me  true  and  tender,  and  stuck  to 
me  day  and  night. 

A.nd  if  ever  a  house  was  tidy,  and  ever  a 

kitchen  clean. 
Her  house  and  kitchen  was  tidy  as  any  I 

ever  seen, 
And  I  don't  complain  of  Betsy  or  any  ot  her 

acts, 
Exceptin'  when  we've  quarreled,  and  told 

each  other  facts. 

So  draw  up  the  paper,  lawyer ;  and  I'll  go 

home  to-night, 
And  read  the  agreement  to  her,  and  see  if  it's 

all  right ; 
And  then  in  the  morning  I'll  sell  to  a  tradin' 

man  I  know — 
And  kiss  the  child  that  was  left  to  us,  and 

out  in  the  world  I'll  go. 


And  one  thing  put  in  the  paper,  that  first  to 
me  didn't  occur  ; 

That  when  I  am  dead  at  last  she  will  bring 
me  back  to  her, 

And  lay  me  under  the  maple  we  planted 
years  ago, 

When  she  and  I  was  happy,  before  we  quar- 
relled so, 

And  when  she  dies.  I  wish  that  she  would 

be  laid  by  me  ; 
And  lyin'  together  in  silence,  perhaps  we'l\ 

then  agree ; 
And  if  ever  we  meet  in  heaven,  I  wouldn't 

think  it  queer 
It  we  loved  each  other  the  better  because 

we've  quarrelled  here. 


BETSY  DESTROYS  THE  PAPER. 


f^^'VE  brought  back   the   paper,  lawyer, 
^1^        and  fetched  the  parson  here. 
To   see   that  things  are  regular,  and 
settled  up  fair  and  clear  ; 
^   For  I've  been  talking  with  Caleh,  and 
I  Caleb  has  with  me, 

1    And  the  'mount  of  it  is  we're  minded 
to  try  once  more  to  agree. 

So  I  came  here  on  the  business, — only  a  word 

to  say 
(Caleb   is   staking    pea-vines,   and    couldn't 

come  to-day.) 
Just  to  tell  you  and  parson  how  that  we've 

changed  our  mind  ; 
So  I'll  tear  up  the  paper,  lawyer,  you  see  it 

wasn't  signeil. 

And  now  if  parson  is  ready,  I'll   walk  with 

him  toward  home ; 
r  want  to  thank  him  for  something,  'twas 

kind  of  him  to  come  ; 
He's  showed  a  Christian  spirit,  stood   by  ua 

firm  and  true  ; 
We  mightn't  have  changed  our  mind,  squire, 

if  he'd  been  a  lawyer  too. 
26 


There  !— how   good   the   sun   feels,  and  the 

grass,  and  blowin'  trees, 
Something   about  them    lawyers   makes  me 

feel  fit  to  freeze  ; 
I  wasn't  bound   to  state  particular  to   that 

man, 
But   it's   right    you   should    know,   parson, 

about  our  change   of  plan. 

We'd  been   some  days  a"  waverin'  a  little, 

Caleb  and  me. 
And  wished  the  hateful  paper  at  the  bottom 

of  the  sea  ; 
But  I  guess  'twas  the  prayer  last  evening 

and  the  few  words  j'ou  said. 
That  thawed  the  ice  between  us,  and  brought 

things  to  a  head. 

You  see,  when  we  came  to  division,  there 

was  things  that  wouldn't  divide  ; 
There   was  our   twelve-year-old    baby,   she 

couldn't  be  satisfied 
To  go  with  one  or  the  other,  but  just  kept 

whimperin'  low, 
"  I'll  stay  with  papa  and  mamma,  and  where 

they  go  I'll  go." 


384 


BF.TSY  DESTROYS  THE  PAPER. 


Then  there  was  grandsire's  Bible — he  died 

on  our  wedding  day  ; 
We  couldn't  halve  the  old  Bible,  and  should 

it  go  or  stay  ? 
The  sheets  that  was  Caleb's   mother's,  her 

sampler  on  the  wall, 
With  the  sweet  old  names  worked  in — Try- 

phena,  and  Eunice,  and  Paul. 

It  began  to  be  hard  then,  parson,  but  it  grew 

harder  still, 
Talkin'    of     Caleb     established     down     at 

McHenry'sville ; 
Three  dollars  a  week  'twould  cost  him ;  no 

mendin'  nor  sort  of  care. 
And  board   at    the  Widow    Meacham's,    a 

woman  that  wears  false  hair. 

Still  we  went  on  a  talkin'  ;  I  agreed  to  knit 
some  socks. 

And  make  a  dozen  striped  shirt?,  and  a  pair 
of  wa'mua  frocks ; 

And  he  was  to  cut  a  doorway  from  the  kit- 
chen to  the  shed  : 

"Save  you  climbing  steps  much  in  frosty 
weather,"  he  said. 

He  brought  me  the  pen   at  last ;    I  felt  a 

sinkin'  and  he 
Looked  as  he  did  with  the  agur,  in  the  spring 

of  .nixty-three. 
'Twas  then  you  dropped  in,  parson,  'twasn't 

much  that  was  said, 
"  Little  children,  love  one  another,"  but  the 

thing  was  killed  stone  dead. 

I  should  like  to  make  confession  ;  not  that 

I'm  going  to  say  , 

The  fault  wa«  all  on  my  side,  that  never  was  ' 

my  way,  i 

But  it  rnay  be  true  that  women — tho'  iiow  1 

'tis  I  can't  see —  | 

Are  a  trifle  more  aggravatin'  than  men  know 

how  to  he. 

Then,  parson,   the    neighbors'    meddlin' — it 

w:u*n't  pourin.oil ; 
And    tho    churcli    a    laboriii'  with    us,  'twas 

worse  than  wasted  toil ; 


And  I've  thought  and  so  has  Caleb,  though 

maybe  we  are  wrong, 
If  they'd   kept   to   their   own   business,  we 

should  have  got  along. 

There  was  Deacon  Amos  Purdy,  a  good  man 

as  we  know. 
But  hadn't  a  gift  of  laborin'  except  with  the 

scythe  and  hoe ; 
Then  a  load  came  over  in  peach  time  from 

the  Wilbur  neighborhood, 
"  Season  of  prayer,"  they  called  it ;  didn't  do 

an  atom  of  good. 

Then  there  are  pints  of  doctrine,  and  views 

of  a  future  state 
I'm  willing  to  stop  discussin'  ;  we  can  both 

afford  to  wait ; 
'Twon't  bring  the  millenium  sooner,  disputin' 

about  when  it's  due, 
Although  I  feel  an  assurance  that's  mine's 

the  Scriptural  view. 

Bat  the  blessedest  truths  of  the  Bible,  I've 

learned  to  think  don't  lie 
In  the  texts  we  hunt  with  a  candle  to  prove 

our  doctrines  by. 
But  them  that  come  to  us   in  sorrow,  and 

when  we're  on  our  knees ; 
So  if  Caleb   won't  argue  on  free-will,   I'll 

leave  alone  the  decrees. 

But  there's  the  request  he  made  ;  you  know 

it,  parson,  about 
Bein'  laid  under  the  maples  that  his  own 

hand  set  out, 
And  me  to  be  laid  beside  him  when  my  turn 

comes  to  go  ; 
As  if— as  if — don't  mind  nie ;  but  'twas  tliat 

unstrung  me  so. 

And  now,  that  some  scales,  aa  W(!  think,  liavo 

fallen  from  our  ej  os. 
And  things  brought  so  to  a  criBis  have  iilkio 

us  both  more  wise, 
Why  Caleb  says  and  so  1  say,  till  the  Lord 

parts  him  and  me, 
We'll  |love    each    other    belter,  :in(l    try  our 

best  to  agree. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT. 


385 


ANNIE  LA  URIE. 


iAXWELTON  braes  are  bonnie 
'^  Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
■^   And  it's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true, — 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true. 
Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be  ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I'd  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw-drift ; 
Her  throat  is  like  the  swan  ; 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on, — 


That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on ; 
And  dark  blue  is  her  e'e ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I'd  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Like  dew  on  the  gowan  lying 

Is  the  fa'  o'  her  fairy  feet ; 

And  like  the  winds  in  summer  sighing, 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet, — 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet ; 

And  she's  a'  the  world  to  me ; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  me.  doune  and  dee. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT. 


ARTHUR    PENRHYN   STANLEY, 


||HE  relation  of  the  Desert  to  its  modern  inhabitants  is  still  illustra- 
tive of  its  ancient  history.  The  general  name  by  which  the 
Hebrews  called  "  the  wilderness,"  including  always  that  of  Sinai, 
was  "  the  pasture."  Bare  as  the  surface  of  the  Desert  is,  yet  the 
thin  clothing  of  vegetation,  which  is  seldom  entirely  withdrawn, 
especially  the  aromatic  shrubs  on  the  high  hillsides,  furnish  suffi- 
cient sustenance  for  the  herds  of  the  six  thousand  Bedouins  who  constitute 
the  present  population  of  the  peninsula. 

''  Along  the  mountain  ledges  green, 
The  scatter'd  sheep  at  will  may  glean 
The  Desert's  spicy  stores." 

So  were  they  seen  following  the  daughters  or  the  shepherd-slaves  of 
Jethro,  So  may  they  be  seen  climbing  the  rocks,  or  gathered  round  the 
pools  and  sprmgs  of  the  valleys,  under  the  charge  of  the  black-veiled 
Bedouin  women  of  the  present  day.  And  in  the  Tiyaha,  Toward,  or  Alouin 
tribes,  with  their  chiefs  and  followers,  their  dress,  and  manners,  and  habi- 
tations, we  probably  see  the  likeness  of  the  Midianites,  the  Amalekites, 
and  the  Israelites  themselves  in  this  their  earliest  stage  of  existence.  The 
long  strait  lines  of  black  tents  which  cluster  round  the  Desert  springs, 


386 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT. 


present  to  us,  on  a  small  scale,  the  image  of  the  vast  encampment  gathered 
round  the  one  sacred  tent  which,  with  its  coverings  of  dyed  skins,  stood 
conspicuous  in  the  midst,  and  which  recalled  the  period  of  their  nomadic 
Hfe  long  after  their  settlement  in  Palestine.  The  deserted  villages,  marked  by- 
rude  enclosures  of  stone,  are  doubtless  such  as  those  to  which  the  Hebrew 
wanderers  gave  the  name  of  "  Hazeroth,"  and  which  afterwards  furnished 


MIUAHI-:    ]S    TnK    PERKRT. 


the  typo  of  tlift  primitive  sanctuary  at  Sliiloh.  The  rude  burial-grounds, 
with  the  many  nameless  hoad-stones,  far  away  from  human  habitation,  are 
fiurh  as  the  host  of  Israel  must  have  left  bchiiid  them  at  the  differont  stages 
of  their  progress — at  Masaah,  at  Sinai,  at  Kibroth-hattaavah,  "the  graves 
of  desire."  Tlio  salutations  of  the  chiefs,  in  their  bright  scarlet  robes,  the 
one  "  going  out  to  meet  the  other,"  the  "  obeisance,"  the  "  kiss  "  on  each 
flide  of  the  head,  tlio  silent  entrance  into  the  tent  for  consultations,  are  all 
graphically  described  in  th<^  i-noountrir  between  Moses  and  Jetliro.     The 


ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN. 


387 


constitution  of  the  tribes,  with  the  subordinate  degrees  of  sheiks,  recora- 
niended  by  Jetliro  to  Moses,  is  the  very  same  which  still  exists  amongst 
those  who  are  possibly  his  lineal  descendants — the  gentle  race  of  the 
Towara. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


ING  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light ; 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new; 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow  ; 
The  j^ear  is  going,  let  him  go ; 
Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 


Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more  ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor. 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 


Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 
With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  bloo(T, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite  ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old. 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand  ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land; 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN. 


w.  c. 

?ERRILY    swinging    on    brier   and 
weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 
Robert  of  Lincoln   is  telling  his 

name : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours. 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers, 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  dressed. 
Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding  coat ; 


BRYANT. 


White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  creat, 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note  ; 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Look  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings. 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  smgn 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 


388 


A  PORTRAIT. 


Brood,  kind  creature ;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers,  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she. 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note. 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat ; 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man ; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves  if  you  can. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  puryjle,  a  pretty  sight ! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,,  spink  ; 
Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out. 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell 
Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food  ; 


Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seed  for  the  hungry  brood. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work  and  silent  with  care ; 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half-forgotten  that  merry  air, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes  ;  the  children  are  grown  ; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone  ; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


A  PORTRAIT. 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING. 


"One  name  is  Elizabeth."— Bkn  J(.nso>j. 


«|^  WILL  paint  her  as.  I  see  her, 
^L     Ten  times  have  the  lilies  blown 
f^     Since  she  looked  upon  the  sun. 

4    And  hf»r  fare  is  lilj'-flfar, 

Lily  shaped,  and  dropped  in  duty 
To  the  law  of  its  own  beauty. 

Oval  rheekfl  f-ncolored  faintly, 
Wliich  a  trail^of  j^olden  hair 
K^ops  from  fading  oil  to  air; 

4nd  a  foreh'-ad  fair  and  saintly, 
Wlii'h  two  blue  eyes  undorshino. 
Like  meek  prayers  before  a  shrine. 


Face  and  figure  of  a  child, — 

Though  too  calm,  you  think,  and  ton'*A» 
For  the  childhood  you  would  lend  her- 

Yet  child-simple,  undefilcd, 
Frank,  obedient, — waiting  still 
On  the  turnings  of  your  will. 

Moving  light,  as  all  your  things, 
Ah  young  birds,  or  early  wheat. 
When  the  wind  blows  over  it. 

Only,  free  from  fluttorings 
Of  loud  mirth  that  scorneth  mesflnre, — 
Taking  love  for  her  chief  [pleasure. 


THE  LAUNCHING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


389 


Chooaing  pleasures,  for  the  rest, 
Which  come  softly, — ^just  as  she. 
When  she  nestles  at  your  knee. 

Quiet  talk  she  liketh  best, 
In  a  bower,  of  gentle  looks, — 
Watering  flowers,  or  reading  books. 

And  her  voice,  it  murmurs  lowly, 
As  a  silver  stream  may  run, 
Which  yet  feels,  you  feel,  the  sun. 

And  her  smile,  it  seems  half  holy. 
As  if  drawn  from  thoughts  more  far 
Than  our  common  jestings  are. 

And  if  any  poet  knew  her. 
He  would  sing  of  her  with  falls 
Used  in  lovely  madrigals. 

And  if  any  painter  drew  her. 
He  would  paint  her  unaware 
With  a  halo  round  the  hair. 


And  if  reader  read  the  poem, 

He  would  whisper,  "  You  have  done  » 
Consecrated  little  Una." 

And  a  dreamer  (did  you  show  him 
That  same  picture)  would  exclaim, 
"  'Tis  my  angel  with  a  name  !" 

And  a  stranger,  when  he  sees  her 
In  the  street  even,  smileth  stilly, 
Just  as  you  would  at  a  lilj-. 

And  all  voices  that  address  her 
Soften,  sleeken  every  word. 
As  if  speaking  to  a  bird. 

And  all  fancies  yearn  to  cover 

The  hard  earth  whereon  she  passes, 
With  the  thymy -scented  grasses. 

And  all  hearts  do  pray,  "  God  love  her  !*■ 
Ay,  and  always,  in  good  sooth, 
We  may  all  be  sure  He  doth. 


TEE  LA  UNCHING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


LL  is  finished,  and  at  length 
Has  come  the  bridal  day 
Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 
To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched  ! 
With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched  ! 
And  o'er  the  bay. 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight. 
The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  ocean  old. 

Centuries  old. 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled. 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro. 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest. 

And  far  and  wide 

With  ceaseless  flow 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 


He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands. 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 

In  honor  of  her  marriage-day, 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending. 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray  old  sea. 

Then  the  Master, 

With  a  gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand  ; 

And  at  the  word. 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard. 

All  around  them  and  below. 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see  !  she  stirs ! 


390 


TACITUS. 


She  starts, — she  moves, — she  seems  to  feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel. 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound. 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms. 

And  lo  !    from  the  assembled  crowd 

There  rose  a  shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 

That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say, 

"  Take  her,  0,  bridegroom,  old  and  gray  ; 

Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms. 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms." 

How  beautiful  she  is  !  how  fair 

She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 

Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 

Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care ! 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  0,  ship ! 

Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer, 

The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 

Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life. 
Oh  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 
And  safe  from  all  adversity. 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be ! 
For  gentleness,  and  love,  and  trust, 


Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 
And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survives  ! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  0  ship  of  State ! 
Sail  on,  0  Union,  strong  and  great ! 
Humanity,  with  all  its  fears. 
With  all  its  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel 
What  workman  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  boat, 
In  what  a  forge,  in  what  a  heat. 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope. 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock  ; 

'Tis  of  the  wave,  and  not  the  rock; 

'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale. 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest  roar. 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore. 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea. 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  witli  thee  : 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  pra^-ers,  our  tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee — are  all  with  thee. 


TACITUS. 


T.    BABINGTON   MACAULAY. 
_^?^  

^N  the  delineation  of  character,  Tacitus  is  unrivalled  among  historians, 

1^     and  has  very  few  superiors  among  dramatists  and  novelists.     By 

'/f^     the  delineation  of  character  we  do  not  mean  the  practice  of  drawing 

'''-'       up  epigrammatic  catalogues  of  good  and  bad  qualities,  and  append- 

iing  them  to  the  names  of  eminent  men.  No  writer  indeed  ha.s  done 
this  more  skillfully  than  Tacitus ;  hut  this  is  not  his  peculiar  glory. 
All  the  j)orsons  who  occupy  a  large  space  in  his  works  have  an  individual- 
ity of  character  which  seems  to  pervade  all  their  words  and  actions.  We 
know  thom  as  if  wo  had  lived  with  them.  Claudius,  Nero,  Otlio,  both  the 
Agripitinas,  are  masterpieces.  But  Tiberius  is  a  still  higher  miracle  of 
art.  The  historian  undertook  to  make  us  intimately  acquainted  with  a 
man  singularly  dark  and  inscrutable— whose  real  disposition  long  remain- 


CATO  ON  IMMORTALITY. 


391 


ed  swathed  up  in  intricate  folds  of  factitious  virtues,  and  over  whose 
actions  the  hypocrisy  of  his  youth  and  the  sechision  of  his  old  age  throw  a 
singular  mystery.  He  was  to  exhibit  the  specious  qualities  of  the  tyrant 
in  a  light  which  might  render  them  transparent,  and  enable  us  at  once  to 
perceive  the  covering  and  the  vices  which  it  concealed.  He  was  to  trace 
the  gradations  by  which  the  first  magistrate  of  a  republic,  a  senator  mingling 
freely  in  debate,  a  noble  associatifig  with  his  brother  nobles,  was  trans- 
formed into  an  Asiatic  sultan  ;  he  was  to  exhibit  a  character  distinguished 
by  courage,  self-command,  and  profound  policy,  yet  defiled  by  all 

"  th'  extravagancy 
And  crazy  ribaldry  of  fancy." 

He  was  to  mark  the  gradual  effect  of  advancing  age  and  approaching  death 
on  this  strange  compound  of  strength  and  weakness ;  to  exhibit  the  old 
sovereign  of  the  world  sinking  into  a  dotage  which,  though  it  rendered  his 
appetites  eccentric  and  his  temper  savage,  never  impaired  the  powers  of 
his  stern  and  penetrating  mind,  conscious  of  failing  strength,  raging  with 
capricious  sensuality,  yet  to  the  last  the  keenest  of  observers,  the  most 
artful  of  dissemblers,  and  the  most  terrible  of  masters.  The  task  was  one 
of  extreme  difficulty.     The  execution  is  almost  perfect. 


CATO  ON  IMMORTALITY. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


•^%* 


St  must  be  so. — Plato,  thou  reasonest  well ! 
Else  whence   this  pleasing  hope,  this 

fond  desire, 
This  longing  after  immortality? 
"I        Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  in- 
!I  ward  horror, 

J        Of  falling  into  naught  ?     Why  shrinks 
the  soul 
Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction  ? 
'Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us  ; 
'Tis  heaven  itself,  that  points  out  a  hereafter. 
And  intimates  eternity  to  man 

Eternity  !— thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought ! 
Through  what  variety  of  untried  being, 
Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must 
vve  pass ! 


The  wide,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before 

me ; 
But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon 

it. 
Here  will  I  hold.      If  there's  a  Power  above 

us, — 
!  And  that  there  is,  all  Nature  cries  aloud 
j  Through  all  her  works.  He  must  delight  in 

virtue ; 
And   that   which    He    delights    in  must  b* 

happy, 
But  when  ?  or  where  ?     This  world  was  m»da 

for  Caesar. 
I'm  wearv  of   conjectures, — this   must   end 

them. 

[Laying  his  haiid  on  hii  sword.] 


392 


THE  SANDS  O'  DEE. 


Thus  am  I  doubly  armed.     My  death  and  life, 
My  bane  and  antidote,  are  both  before  me, 
This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  my  end ; 
But  this  informs  me  I  shall  never  die. 
The  soul,  secure  in  her  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 


The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow    dim    with    age,    and  Nature  sink  in 

years ; 
But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth. 
Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elements. 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  world*. 


THE  SANDS  0'  DEE. 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY. 


MARY,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home. 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 

i^  Acrosfi  the  sands  o'Dee  ! 

The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dark 
v/i'  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand. 
As  far  as  eye  could  see ; 

The  blinding  mist  came  down   and  hid  the 
land, 
And  never  liome  came  she. 


"  0  is  it  weed,  or  fisli,  or  floating  hair, 

A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 

O'  drowned  maiden's  hair. 

Above  the  nets  at  sea? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair, 

Among  llie  stakes  on   Dee. 

They  rowed  lu-r  in  across  tlie  rolling  foam, 

The  cruel,  crawling  foam. 

The  cruel,  hungry  foam. 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea: 
But  still  the  boatmen  hoar  lier  call  the  cattle 
home 

Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 


NELL. 


393 


NELL. 


ROSpRT   BUCHANAN, 


^OU'RE  a  kind  woman,  Nan  !  ay,  kind 
and  true  ! 
God  will  be  good  to  faithful  folk 

like  you  J 
You  knew  my  Ned ! 
A  better,  kinder  lad  never  drew  breath. 
We  loved  each  other  true,  and  we  were  wed 
In  church,  like  some  who  took  him  to  his 

death  ; 
A  lad  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,  but  lost 
His  senses  when  he  took  a  drop  too  much. 

Drink  did  it  all — drink  made  him  mad  when 

crossed — 
He  was  a  poor   man,  and  they're    hard  on 

such. 
ONan!  that  night!  that  night! 
When  I  was  sitting  in  this  very  chair, 
Watching  and  waiting  in  the  candle-light, 
And  heard  his  foot   come  creaking  up  the 

stair, 
And  turned,  and  saw  him  standing  yond<)» 

white 
And  wild,   with  staring  eyes  and  rumpled 

hair  ! 
And  when  I  caught  his  arm  and  called,  in 

fright. 
He  pushed  me,  swore,  and  to  the  door  he 


To  lock  and  bar  it  fast. 

Then  down  he  drops  just  like  a  lump  of  lead, 

Holding  his  brow,  shaking,  and  growing 
whiter, 

And— Nan !— just  then  the  light  seemed  grow- 
ing brighter. 

And  I  could  see  the  hands  that  held  his  head, 

All  red !  all  bloody  red ! 

What  could  I  do  but  scream  ?  He  groaned 
to  hear, 

lumped  to  his  feet,  and  gripped  me  by  the 
wrist; 

"  Be  still,  or  I  shall  kill  thee,  Nell !"  he  hissed. 

And  I  was  still,  for  fear. 

"  They're  after  me — I've  knifed  a  man !"  he 
said. 


"  Be  still !— the  drink— drink  did  it !— he  is 
dead !" 

Then  we  grew  still,  dead  still.     I  couldn't 

weep ; 
All  I  could  do  was  cling  to  Ned  and  hark, 
And  Ned  was  cold,  cold,  cold,  aa  if  asleep, 
But  breathing  hard  and  deep. 
The   candle   flickered   out — the   room   grew 

dark — 
And — Nan! — although   my  heart  was  true 

and  tried — 
When  all  grew  cold  and  dim, 
I  shuddered — not  for  fear  of  them  outside, 
But  just  afraid  to  be  alone  with  him. 
"  Ned !  Ned  I"  I  whispered — and  he  moaned 

and  shook. 
But  did  not  heed  or  look  ! 
"  Ned !  Ned !   speak,  lad !  tell  me  it  is  not 

true !" 
At  that  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  so 

wild ; 
Then,  with  a  stare  that  froze  my  blood,  he 

threw 
His  arms  around  me,  crying  like  a  child. 
And  heJd  me  close — and  not  a  word  was 

spoken. 
While   I   clung   tighter    to   his   heart,    and 

pressed  him. 
And  did  not  fear  him,  though  my  heart  was 

broken. 
But  kissed  his  poor  stained  hands,  and  cried, 

and  blessed  him. 

Then,  Nan,  the  dreadful  daylight,  coming 

cold 
With  sound  o'  falling  rain — 
When  I  could  see  his  face,  and  it  looked  old. 
Like  the  pinched  face  of  one  that  dies  in 

pain ; 
Well,  though  we  heard  folk  stirring  in  ths 

sun, 
We  never  thought  to  hide  away  or  run. 
Until  we  heard  those  voices  in  the  street, 
That  hurrying  of  feet. 


394 


THE  DIVINITY  OF  POETRY. 


And  Ned  leaped  up,  and  knew  that  they  had 
come. 

"Run,  Ned  I"  I  cried,  but  he  was  deaf  and 
dumb !" 

"Hide,  Ned  I"  I  screamed,  and  held  him; 
"  hide  thee,  man  !" 

He  itared  with  bloodshot  eyes,  and  heark- 
ened, Nan ! 

And  all  the  rest  is  like  a  dream — the  sound 

Of  knocking  at  the  door — 

A  rush  of  men — a  struggle  on  the  ground — 

A  mist — a  tramp — a  roar  ; 

For  when  I  got  my  senses  back  again. 

The  room  was  empty — and  my  head  went 
round  ! 

God  help  him  !    God  will  help  him  !     Ay,  no 

fear ! 
It  was  the  drink,   not   Ned — he  meant  no 

wrong ; 
So  kind  !  so  good ! — and  I  am  useless  here. 
Now  he  is  lost  that  loved  me  true  and  long. 
.     .     .     That  night  before  he  died 
I  didn't  cry — my  heart  was  hard  and  dried ; 
But  when  the  clocks  went  "  one,"  I  took  my 

shawl 
To  cover  up  my  face,  and  stole  away. 
And  walked  along  the  silent  streets,  where 

all 
Looked  cold  and  still  and  gray. 
And  on  I  went,  and  stood  in  Leicester  Square, 
ijut  just  as  "  three  "  was  sounded  close  at  hand 
I  started  and  turned  eas*.  before  I  knew, 
Then  down  Saint  Mi     ;a's  Lane,  along  tlie 

Strand, 


And  through  the  toll-gate  on  to  Waterloo. 

Some  men  and  lads  went  by. 

And  turning  round,  I  gazed,  and  watched 

'em  go. 
Then  felt  that  they  were  going  to  see  hira 

die. 
And  drew  my  .^hawl  more  tight,  and  followed 

slow. 
More  people  passed  me,  a  country  cart  with 

hay 
Stopped  close  beside  me,  and  two  or  three 
Talked  about  it.'   I  moaned  and  crept  away! 

Next  came  a  hollow  sound  I  knew  full  well, 
For  .something  gripped  me  round  the  heart ! 

— and  then 
There  came  the  solemn  tolling  of  a  bell ! 

0  God !  0  God  !  how  could  I  sit  close  by. 
And  neither  scream  nor  cry  ? 

As  if  I  had  been  stone,  all  hard  and  cold, 

1  listened,  listened,  listened,  still  and  dumb. 
While  the  folk  murmured,  and  the  death-bell 

tolled, 
And  the  day  brightened,  and  his  time  had 

come     .     . 
.     .     .     Till — Nan  ! — all  else  was  silent,  but 

the  knell 
Of  the  slow  bell ! 

And  I  could  only  wait,  and  wait,  and  wait, 
And  what  I  waited  for  I  couldn't  tell — 
At  last   there   came   a   groaning   deep   and 

great — 
Saint  Paul's  struck  "  eight  " — 
I  screamed,  and  seemed  to  turn  to  fire,  an"l 

fell! 


TJfE  DIVINITY  OF  POETRY. 


PERCY    BYSSIIE    SHELLEY. 


|OETRY  is  the  record  of  the  best  and  happiest  momaiits  of  the 
happiest  and  best  minds.  We  arc  aware  of  evanescent  visitations 
of  thouglit  and  feeling,  sometimes  associated  with  j)laco  or  person, 
sometimes  regarding  our  own  mind  alone,  and  always  arising 
unforeseen  and  departing  unbidden,  but  elevating  and  delightful 
Vioyond  all  expression ;  so  that,  even  in  the  desire  and  the  regret 


ANNIE  AND  WILLIE'S  PRAYER. 


395 


they  leave,  there  cannot  hut  be  pleasure,  participating  as  it  does  in  the 
nature  of  its  object.  It  is,  as  it  were,  the  interpenetration  of  a  diviner 
nature  through  our  own;  but  its  footsteps  are  like  those  of  a  wind  over 
the  sea,  which  the  morning  calm  erases,  and  whose  traces  remain  only,  as 
on  the  wrinkled  sand  which  paves  it.  These  and  corresponding  conditions 
of  being  are  experienced  principally  by  those  of  the  most  delicate  sensibility 
and  the  most  enlarged  imagination;  and  the  state  of  mind  produced  by  them 
is  at  war  with  every  base  desire.  The  enthusiasm  of  virtue,  love,  patriot- 
ism, and  friendship,  is  essentially  linked  with  such  emotions;  and  whilst 
they  last,  self  appears  as  what  it  is,  an  atom  to  a  universe.  Poets  are 
not  only  subject  to  these  experiences  as  spirits  of  the  most  refined 
organization,  but  they  can  colour  all  that  they  combine  with  the  evanes- 
cent hues  of  this  ethereal  world;  a  word,  a  trait  in  the  representation  of 
a  scene  or  passion,  will  touch  the  enchanted  chord,  and  reanimate,  in 
those  who  have  ever  experienced  those  emotions,  the  sleeping,  the  cold,  the 
buried  image  of  the  past.  Poetry  thus  makes  immortal  all  that  is  best 
and  most  beautiful  in  the  world;  it  arrests  the  vanishing  apparitions 
which  haunt  the  interlunations  of  life,  and  veiling  them,  or  in  language 
or  in  form,  sends  them  forth  among  mankind,  bearing  sweet  news  of 
kindred  joy  to  those  with  whom  their  sisters  abide — abide,  because  there 
is  no  portal  of  expression  from  the  caverns  of  the  spirit  which  they 
inhabit  into  the  universe  of  things.  Poetry  redeems  from  decay  the 
visitations  of  the  divinity  in  man. 


ANNIE  AND   WILLIE'S  PRA  YEE. 


SOPHIA    P.    SNOW, 


-JpWAS  the  eve  before  Christmas,  "  Good- 
fci/is         night "  had  been  said  ; 

And  Annie   and  "Willie  had   crept 

into  bed  ; 
There  were  tears   on   tneir  pillows, 
and  tears  in  their  eyes, 
And  each  little  bosom  was  heaving  with  sighs, 
For  to-night  their  stern   father's  command 

had  been  given 
That  they  should  retire  precisely  at  seven — 
Instead  of  at  eight— for  they  troubled  him 

more 
With  questions  unheard  of  than  ever  before  : 


He  had  told  them  he  thought  this  delusion 
a  sin. 

No  such  creature  as  "  Santa  Claus  "  ever  had 
been, 

And  he  hoped,  after  this,  he  should  never- 
more hear 

How  he  scrambled  down  chimneys  with  pre- 
sents each  year. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that  two  little  headi 

So  restlessly  tossed  on  their  soft,  downy  beda. 

Eight,  nine,  and  the  clock  on  the  steeple 
tolled  ten, 


396 


ANNIE  AND  WILLIE'S  PRAYER. 


Not  a  word  had  been  spoken  by  either  till 

then, 
When  Willie's  sad  face  from  the  blanket  did 

peep, 
As  he  whispered,  "  Dear  Annie,  is  'ou  fast 

aseep?" 
"Why  no,  brother  Willie,"  a  sweet  voice 

replies, 
"  I've  long  tried  in  vain,  but  I  can't  shut  my 

eyes. 
For  somehow  it  makes  me  so  sorry  because 
Dear  papa  has  said  there  is  no  '  Santa  Claus.' 
Now  we  know  there  is,  and  it  can't  be  denied, 
For  he  came  every  year  before  mamma  died ; 
But,  then,  I've  been  thinking  that  she  used 

to  pray, 
And  God  would  hear  everything  mamma 

would  say. 
And  maybe  she   asked  Him  to  send  Santa 

•    Claus  here 
With  the  sack  full  of  presents  he  brought 

every  year." 

"  Well,  why  tan't  we  pray  dest  as  Mamma 

did  den, 
And   ask   Dod   to   send   him   with    presents 

aden  ?" 


"  I've  been  thinking  so,  too,"  and  without  a 

word  more 
Four  little    bare   feet  boundod   out   on    the 

floor. 
And  four  little  knees  the  soft  carpet  pressed, 
And   two  tiny  hands  were  clasped  close  to 

each  breast. 
'Now,   Willie,  you   know   we   mu.st  firmly 

believe 
That  the  jiresenta  we  aHk   for  w<;'ro  sure  to 

receive  ; 


You  must  wait  just  as  still  till  I  say  th» 

'  Amen,' 
And  by  that  you  will   know  that  your  turn 

has  come  then." 

"  Dear  Jesus,  look  down  on  my  brother  and 

me. 
And  grant  us  the   favor  we  are  asking  <tf 

Thee. 
I  want  a  wax  dolly,  a  tea-set  and  ring, 
And  an  ebony  work-box,  that  shuts  with  a 

spring. 
Bless  papa,  dear  Jesus,  and  cause  him  to  see, 
That  Santa  Claus  loves  us  as  much  as  does  he : 
Don't  let  him  get  fretful  and  angry  again 
At  dear  brother  Willie  and  Annie.     Amen." 
"  Please,  Desus,  et  Santa  Tans  tum  down  to- 
night. 
And  bing  us  some  presents  before  it  is  ight; 
I  want  he  should  div'  me  a  nice  'ittle  sed, 
With  bright  shinin'  unners,  and  all  painted 

red  ; 
A  box  full  of  tandy,  a  book  and  a  toy, 
Amen,  and  then  Desus,  I'll  be  a  dood  boy." 
Their  prayers  being  ended,  they  raised  up 

their  heads 
And  with  hearts  light  and   cheerful,  again 

sought  their  beds. 
They  were  soon  lost  in  slumber,  both  peace- 
ful and  deep. 
And  with  fairies  in  Dreamland  were  roaming 
in  sleep. 

Eight,  nine,  and  the  little  French  clock  had 

struck  ten. 
Ere  tlie  father  had  thought  of  his  children 

again. 
He  seems  now  to  hear  Annie's  half  suppressed 

sighs, 
And  to  see  tlie  big  tears  stand    in  Willie's 

blue  eyes. 
"  I  was  harsh  with  my  darlings,"  ho  mentally 

said, 
"  And  should  not  liave  sent  them  ho  early  to 

bed; 
But  then  I  was  troubled  ;  my  feelings  found 

vent, 
For  bank  stock  to-day  has  gone  down  ten 

per  cent. 
But  of  course  they've  forgotten  their  troubiM 

ere  this, 


ANNIE  AND  WILLIE'S  PRAYER. 


397 


A.nd  that  I  denied  them  their  thrice-asked-for 

kiss ; 
But  just  to  make  sure,  I'll  steal  up  to  their 

door, 
For  I   never   spoke   harsh    to   my   darlings 

before." 
S«  saying,  he  softly  ascended  the  stairs. 
And  arrived  at  the  door  to  hear  both  of  their 

prayers ; 
His  Annie's  "  Bless  Papa "  drew  forth  thi; 

big  tears, 
And  Willie's  grave  promise  fell  sweet  on  hid 

ears 
'Strange — strange — I'd  forgotten,"  said  he, 

with  a  sigh, 
"  How  I  longed  when  a  child  to  have  Christ- 
mas draw  nigh.  " 
"I'll  atone  for  my  harshness,"  he  inwardly 

said; 
"  By  answering  their  prayers  ere  I  sleep  in 

my  bed." 
Then  turned  to  the  stairs   and  softly  went 

down, 
Threw  off  velvet  slippers  and  silk  dressing- 
gown. 
Donned  hat,  coat  and  boots,  and  was  out  in 

the  street — 
A  millionaire  facing  the  cold  driving  sleet ! 
Nor  stopped  he  until  he  had  bought  every- 
thing. 
From  the  box  full  of  candy  to  the  tiny  gold 

ring. 
Indeed  he  kept  adding  so  much  to  his  store. 
That  the  various   presents    outnumbered  a 

score  ; 
Then  homeward  he  turned,  when  his  holiday 

load, 
With  Aunt  Mary's  help  in  the  nursery  was 

stowed. 
Miss  Dolly  was  seated  beneath  a  pine  tree. 
By  the  side  of  a  table  spread  out  for  her  tea ; 
A  work-box  well   filled   in  the   centre  was 

laid. 
And  on  it  the  ring   for  which  Annie  had 

prayed  : 
A  soldier  in  uniform  stood  by  a  sled, 
"  With  bright  shinin'^  runners  and  all  painted 

red." 
There  were    balls,  dogs   and   horses,  books 
pleasing  to  see, 


And  birds  of  all  colors  were  perched  in  the 

tree  ; 
While  Santa  Glaus,  laughing,  stood  up  in  th« 

top, 
As  if  getting  ready  more  presents  to  drop. 

And  as  the  fond  father  the  picture  surveyed, 
He   thought  for  his   trouble  he  had  amply 

been  jjaid ; 
And  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  brushed  off  a 

tear, 
"  I'm  happier  to-night  than  I've  been  for  a 

year; 
I've  enjoyed  more  true  pleasure  than  ever 

before, 
What  care  I  if  bank  stock  falls  ten  per  cent. 

more  ! 
Hereafter,  I'll  make  it  a  rule,  I  believe. 
To  have  Santa  Glaus  visit  us  each  Christmas 

eve." 
So  thinking,  he  gently  extinguished  the  light, 
And,   tripping  down    stairs,  retired  for   the 

night. 
As  soon  as  the  beams  of  the  bright  morning 

sun 
Put  the  darkness  to  flight,  and  the  stars  one 

by  one, 
Four  little   blue  eyes  out  of  sleep  opened 

wide. 
And  at  the  same  moment  the  presents  espied ; 
Then  out  of  their  beds  they  sprang  with  a 

bound, 
And   the   very  gifts  prayed  for  were  all  of 

them  found. 
They  laughed  and  they  cried  in  their  inno- 
cent glee. 
And  shouted  for  papa  to  come   quick  and 

see 
What  presents  old  Santa  Glaus  brought  in  th» 

night, 
(Just  the  things  that  they  wanted),  and  lefl 

before  light : 
"  And  now,"  added  Annie,  in  voice  soft  and 

low, 
"  You'll  believe  there's  a  '  Santa  Claus,'  papa, 

I  know  ;" 
While  dear  little  Willie  climbed  up  on  his 

knee, 
Determined  no  secret  between  them  should 
be. 


398 


BLIND  MEN  AND  THE  ELEPHANT. 


And  told  in  soft  -whispers    how  Annie  had 

said 
That  their  dear  blessed  mamma,  so  long  ago 

dead, 
Used  to  kneel  down  and  pray  by  the  side  of 

her  chair. 
And  that  God  up  in  heaven  had   answered 

her  prayer. 
"  Den  we  dot  up  and  prayed  dust  as  well  as 

we  tould, 
And  Dod  answered  our  Drayers ;  now  wasn't 

He  dood?" 
'*  I  should  say  that  He  was,  if  He  sent  you 

all  these, 


And  knew  just  what   presents  my  children 

would  please. 
(Well,  well  let  him  think  so,  the  dear  little 

elf, 
'Twould  be  cruel   to   tell   Lim   I  did  it  my- 
self!" 
Blind  father  !  who  caused  your  stern  heart  to 

relent, 
And   the   hasty  words   spoken,   so   soon   to 

repent  ? 
'Twas  the  Being  who  bade  you  steal  softly 

up  stairs. 
And  make  you  His   agent   to  answer   their 

prayers. 


BLIXD  MEN  AND   THE  ELEPHANT. 


J.    G.    SAXE. 


wafl  six  rrien  of  IndoHtaii 

To  learning  mu<li  inclinod, 
.Vlio  went  to  see  th'-  Elo[)luint 

(Though  all  of  them  wore  blind,) 
Tliat  oach  by  observation 
Might  satiHfy  his  mind. 

The  First  approached  the  Elephant, 
And,  happening  to  fall 


Against  his  broad  and  stiirdysido, 

At  once  began  to  bawl : 
"  God  bless  mo  !    but  the  Elephant 

Is  very  like  a  wall !" 

The  Second,  fooling  of  the  tusk. 
Cried  :    "  Ho  !  what  have  wn  hern 

Ho  very  rniind  and  smooth  and  sharp? 
To  me  'li.s  mighty  clear 


NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY  LEAVES  DOTHEBOYS'  HALL 


39» 


This  wonder  of  an  Elephant 

The  Sixth  no  sooner  had  begun 

Is  very  like  a  spear  !" 

About  the  beast  to  grope, 
Than,  seizing  on  the  swinging  tail 

The  Third  approached  tlie  animal, 

That  fell  within  his  scope, 

And,  happening  to  take 

"  I  see,"  quoth  he,  "  the  Elephant 

The  squirming  trunk  within  his  hands, 

Is  very  like  a  rope  !" 

Thus  boldly  up  and  spake  : 

"  I  see,"  quoth  he,  "  the  Elephant 

Is  very  like  a  snake  !" 

And  so  these  men  of  Indostan 
Disputed  loud  and  long. 

The  Fourth  reached  out  his  eager 

hand, 

Each  in  his  own  opinion 

And  felt  about  the  knee  . 

Exceeding  stiff  and  strong. 

"  What  most  this  wondrous  beast  i 

s  like 

Though  each  was  partly  in  the  right, 

Is  mighty  plain,"  quoth  he  ; 

And  all  were  in  the  wrong  ! 

'"Tis  clear  enough  the  Elephant 

Is  very  like  a  tree !  " 

MORAL. 

The  Fifth,  who  chanced  to  touch  the  ear. 

So,  oft  in  theologic  wars 

Said  :    "  E'en  the  blindest  man 

The  disputants,  I  ween, 

Can  tell  what  this  resembles  most ; 

Rail  on  in  utter  ignorance 

Deny  the  fact  who  can, 

Of  what  each  other  mean, 

This  marvel  of  an  Elephant 

And  prate  about  an  Elephant 

Is  very  like  a  fan  !" 

Not  one  of  them  has  seen  ! 

NICHOLAS  mCKLEBY  LEAVES  DOTHEBOYS  HALL. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


HHE  news  that  the  fugitive  had  been  caught  and  brought  back  ran 

like  wildfire   through  the  hungry   community,  and    expectation 

was  on  tiptoe  all  the  morning.     On  tiptoe  it  remained  until  the 

afternoon,  when  Squeers,  having  refreshed  himself  with  his  dinner 

and  an  extra  libation  or  so,  made  his  appearance  (accompanied 

by  his  amiable  partner),  with  a  fearful  instrument  of  flagellation, 

strong,  supple,  wax-ended,  and  new. 

"  Is  every  boy  here  ?" 

Every  boy  was  there,  but  every  boy  was  afraid  to  speak ;  so  Squeers 

glared  along  the  lines  to  assure  himself. 

"  Each  boy  keep  his  place.     Nickleby  !  you  go  to  your  desk,  sir  !" 

There  was   a  curious  expression  in  the  usher's  fiice ;  but  he  took  his 

seat,  without  opening  his  lips  in  reply.     Squeers  left  the  room,  and  shortly 

afterwards    returned,  dragging  Smike  by  the  collar — or  rather  by  that 

fragment  of  his  jacket  which  was  nearest  the  place  v>'here  his  collar  ought 

to  have  been. 
27 


400  NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY  LEAVES  DOTHEBOYS'  HALL. 

"  Now,  what  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?  (Stand  a  little  out  of 
tb©  way,  Mrs.  Squeers,  my  dear ;  I've  hardly  got  room  enough.)  " 

"Spare  me,  sir!" 

"  Oh,  that's  all  you've  got  to  say,  is  it  ?  Yes,  I'll  flog  you  within  an 
inch  of  your  life,  and  spare  you  that." 

One  cruel  blow  had  fallen  on  him,  when  Nicholas  Nickleby  cried, 
"Stop!" 

"  Who  cried  stop  ?" 

"  I  did.    This  must  not  go  on." 

"  Must  not  go  on  !" 

"  No !  Must  not !  Shall  not !  I  will  prevent  it !  You  have  dis- 
regarded all  my  quiet  interference  in  this  miserable  lad's  behalf ;  you  have 
returned  no  answer  to  the  letter  in  which  I  begged  forgiveness  for  him, 
and  offered  to  be  responsible  that  he  would  remain  quietly  here.  Don't 
blame  me  for  this  pubHc  interference.  You  have  brought  it  upon  youi- 
self,  not  I." 

"  Sit  down,  beggar  !" 

"  Wretch,  touch  him  again  at  your  peril  I  I  will  not  stand  by,  and 
aee  it  done.  My  blood  is  up,  and  I  have  the  strength  of  ten  such  men  as 
you.  By  Heaven  !  I  will  not  spare  you,  if  you  drive  me  on !  I  have  a 
aeries  of  personal  insults  to  avenge,  --^'^.d  my  indignation  is  aggravated  by 
the  cruelties  practiced  in  this  foul  den.  Have  a  care ;  for  if  you  raise  the 
devil  in  me,  the  consequences  will  fall  heavily  upon  your  head !" 

Squeers,  in  a  violent  outbreak,  spat  at  him,  and  struck  him  a  blow 
across  the  face.  Nicholas  instantly  sprang  upon  him,  wrested  his  weapon 
from  his  hand,  and,  pinning  him  by  the  throat,  beat  the  ruffian  till  he 
roared  for  mercy. 

He  flung  him  away  with  all  the  force  he  could  muster,  and  the  vio- 
lence of  his  fall  precipitated  Mrs.  Squeers  over  an  adjacent  form ;  Squeers, 
striking  his  head  against  the  same  form  in  his  descent,  lay  at  his  full  length 
on  the  ground,  stunned  and  motionless. 

Having  brotight  affairs  to  this  happy  termination,  and  having  ancer- 
tainod,  to  his  satisfaction,  that  Squeers  was  only  stunned,  and  not  dead 
(upon  which  point  he  had  some  unpleasant  doubts  at  first),  Nichola.s  packed 
up  a  few  clothes  in  a  small  valise,  and,  finding  that  nobody  offered  to 
oppose  his  progress,  marched  boldly  out  by  the  front  door,  and  struck  into 
Uic  roa^l.  Then  such  a  cheer  arose  as  the  walls  of  Dotheboys'  Hall  had 
never  echoed  before,  and  would  never  respond  to  again.  When  the  sound 
had  died  away,  the  rxhool  was  empty;  and  of  the  crowd  of  boys  not  one 
remaino<L 


CLERICAL  WIT. 


401 


A  KISS  AT  THE  DOOR. 


E  were  standing  in  the  doorway, 

My  little  wife  and  I  ; 
The  golden  sun  upon  her  liair 
Fell  down  so  silently ; 
A  small  white  hand  upon  my  arm, — 

What  could  I  ask  for  more 
Than  the  kindly  glance  of  loving  eyes, 
As  she  kissed  me  at  the  door? 


I  know  she  loves  with  all  her  heart 

The  one  who  stands  beside, 
And  the  years  have  been  so  joyous. 

Since  first  I  called  her  bride ; 
We've  had  so  much  of  happiness 

Since  we  met  in  years  before, 
But  the  happiest  time  of  all  was  when 

She  kissed  me  at  the  door. 

Who  cares  for  wealth  of  land  or  gold, 
For  fame  or  matchless  power  ? 

It  does  not  give  the  happiness 
Of  just  one  little  hour 


With  one  who  loves  me  as  her  life — 
She  says  she  loves  me  more — 

And  I  thought  she  did  this  morning, 
When  she  kissed  me  at  the  door. 

At  times  it  seems  that  all  the  world. 

With  all  its  wealth  of  gold. 
Is  very  small  and  poor  indeed. 

Compared  with  what  I  hold  ; 
And  when  the  clouds  hang  grim  and  dark, 

I  only  think  the  more 
Of  one  who  waits  the  coming  step 

To  kiss  me  at  the  door. 

If  she  lives  till  age  shall  scatter 

Its  frosts  upon  her  head, 
I  know  she'll  love  me  just  the  same 

As  the  morning  we  were  wed  ; 
But  if  the  angels  call  her. 

And  she  goes  to  heaven  before, 
I  shall  know  her  when  I  meet  her, — 

For  she'll  kiss  me  at  the  door. 


CLERICAL   WIT 


:^ 


fM^    PARSON,  who  a    missionary  had 
*«^  beeft. 

And  hardships   and   privations   oft 

had  seen. 
While  wandering  far  on  lone  and 

desert  strands, 
A  weary  traveler  in  benighted  lands, 
Would  often  picture  to  his  little  flock 
The  terrors  of  the  gibbet  and  the  block ; 
llow  martyrs  suffer'd  in  the  ancient  times. 
And  what  men  suffer  now  in  other  climes  ; 
And  though  his   words  were   eloquent  and 

deep. 
His  hearers  oft  indulged  themselves  in  sleep. 
He  marked  with  sorrow  each  unconscious  nod. 
Within  the  portals  of  the  house  of  God, 
And  once  this  new  expedient  thought  he'd 

take 
In  his  discourse,  to  keep  the  rogues  awake — 


Said  he,  "  While  traveling  in  a  distant  state, 
I  witness'd  scenes  which  I  will  here  relate : 
'Twas  in  a  deep,  uncultivated  wild, 
Where  noontide  glory  scarcely  ever  smiled  ; 
Where  wolves  in  hours  of  midnight  darkness 

howl'd — 
Where  bears  frequented,  and  where  panthers 

prowl'd ; 
And,   on   my   word,   mosquitoes   there   were 

found. 
Many   of  which,   I   think,  would   weigh    a 

pound ! 
More  fierce  and  ravenous  than  the  hungry 

shark — 
They  oft  were  known  to  climb  the  treea  and 

hark .'" 
The  audience  seem'd  taken  by  surprise — 
All  started  up  and  rubbed  their  wondering 

eyes  ; 


402 


THE  MURDERED  TRAVELER. 


At  such  a  tale  they  all  were  much  amazed, 
Each  drooping  lid  was  in  an  instant  raised, 
And  we  must  say,  in  keeping  heads  erect. 
It  had  its  destined  and  desired  effect. 

But  tales  like  this  credulity  appall'd ; 

Next  day,  the  deacons  on  the  pastor  call'd, 

And  begg'd  to  know  how  he  could  ever  tell 

The  foolish  falsehoods  from  his  lips  that  fell. 

'  WTiy,  sir,"  said  one,  "  think  what  a  mons- 
trous weight ! 

Were  they  as  large  as  you  were  pleased  to 
state? 

You  said  they'd  weigh  a  pound!  It  can't  be 
true ; 


We'll  not  believe  it,  though  'tis  told  by  you ! " 
"  Ah,  but  it  is  !  "  the  parson  quick  replied ; 
"In  what  I  stated  you  may  well  confide; 
Many,  I  said,  sir — and  the  story's  good — 
Indeed  I  think  that  many  of  them  would !  " 
The  deacon  saw  at  once  that  he  was  '.aught. 
Yet    deem'd    himself    relieved,    on    second 

thought. 
"  But  then  the  harking — think  of  that,  good 

man ; 
Such  monstrous  lies!  Explain  it  if  you  can  !" 
"Why,  that,  my  friend,  I  can  explain  with 

ease — 
They  climbed  the  bark,  sir,  when  they  climbed 

the  trees!" 


THE  POUT'S  REWARD. 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


?nANKS  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
?~^^7  From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 
"^^     Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond. 
Wood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond  ; 


The  traveler   owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,    he    knows  not 

whence. 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 


THE  MURDERED  TRAVELER. 


■WILLIAM    C.    BRYANT 
HEN   spring,  to  wood.s   and   wastes 


\ 


i  around, 

Brought  bloom  and  joy  again  ; 
The  murdered  traveler's  bones  were 
found, 
Far  down  a  narrow  glfn. 


Tlie  fragrant  birch,  abov";  hirn.lning 
Her  taHsrlH  in  the  sky  ; 
And  many  a  vernal  blossom  sprung, 
And  nr.rldfd  carfdoHs  by. 

The  red  liird  warbled,  iw  h<;  wrought 
Ilia  hanging  nest  o'crhea/l ; 


And  fearless,  near  the  fatal  spot, 
Her  young  the  partridge  led. 

But  tliorc  was  weeping  far  away. 

And  gentle  oyc.'^,  for  liim, 
With  watching  many  an  anxious  day, 

Wore  sorrowful  ami  dim. 

They  little  knew,  who  loved  him  so. 

The  fearful  death  he  met, 
Whf-n  sliouling  o'er  the  desert  snow 

rnannod  and  b.ir<l  b(!Het; 


c 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


403 


Nor  how,  when  round  the  frosty  pole, 
The  northern  dawn  was  red, 

The  mountain-wolf  and  wild-cat  stole 
To  banquet  on  the  dead; 


But  long  they  looked,  and  feared,  and  wept; 

Within  his  distant  home  ; 
And  dreamed,  and  started  as  they  eispt, 

For  joy  that  he  was  come. 


Nor  how,  when  strangers  found  his  bones, 

They  dressed  the  hasty  bier, 
And  marked  his  grave  with  nameless  stones, 

Unmoistened  by  a  tear. 


Long,  long  they  looked — but  never  a^uA 

His  welcome  step  again. 
Nor  knew  the  fearful  death  he  died 

Far  down  that  narrow  glen. 


TRE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


i|OOD  morning,  Doctor;  how  do  you  do?  I  haint  quite  so  well  as  I 
_J|  have  been;  but  I  think  I'm  some  better  than  I  was.  I  don't  think 
^^^^  that  last  medicine  you  gin  me  did  me  much  good.     I  had  a  terrible 


404  THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


time  with  the  ear-ache  last  night ;  my  wife  got  up  and  drapt  a  few  drapa 
of  walnut  sap  into  it,  and  that  relieved  it  some;  but  I  didn't  get  a  wink 
of  sleep  till  nearly  daylight.  For  nearly  a  week,  Doctor,  I've  had  the  worst 
kind  of  a  narvous  headache;  it  has  been  so  bad  sometimes  that  I  thought 
my  head  would  bust  open.  Oh,  dear !  I  sometimes  think  that  I'm  the 
most  afflictedest  human  that  ever  lived. 

Since  this  cold  weather  sot  in,  that  troublesome  cough,  that  I  have 
had  every  winter  for  the  last  fifteen  year,  has  began  to  pester  me  agin. 
[Coughs)  Doctor,  do  you  think  you  can  give  me  anything  that  will  relieve 
this  desprit  pain  I  have  in  ray  side  ? 

Then  I  have  a  crick  at  times,  in  the  back  of  my  neck,  so  that  I  can't 
turn  my  head  without  turning  the  hull  of  my  body.     {Coughs.) 

Oh,  dear !  what  shall  I  do !  I  have  consulted  almost  every  doctor  in 
the  country,  but  they  don't  any  of  them  seem  to  understand  my  case.  I 
have  tried  everything  that  I  could  think  of;  but  I  can't  find  anything  that 
does  me  the  leastest  good.     {Coughs) 

Oh  this  cough — it  will  be  the  death  of  me  yet!  You  know  I  had  my 
right  hip  put  out  last  fall  at  the  rising  of  Deacon  Jones'  saw  mill;  it's 
getting  to  be  very  troublesome  just  before  we  have  a  change  of  weather 
Then  I've  got  the  sciatica  in  my  right  knee,  and  sometimes  I'm  so  crippled 
up  that  I  can  hardly  crawl  round  in  any  fashion. 

What  do  you  think  that  old  white  mare  of  ours  did  while  I  was  out 
plowing  last  week?  Why,  the  weacked  old  critter,  she  kept  a  backing  and 
backing,  qn  till  she  back'd  me  right  up  agin  the  colter,  and  knock'd  a 
piece  of  skin  off  my  shin  nearly  so  big.     {Coughs.) 

But  I  had  a  worse  misfortune  than  that  the  other  day,  Doctor.  You 
see  it  was  washing-day — and  my  wife  wanted  me  to  go  out  and  bring  in  a 
little  stove-wood — you  know  we  lost  our  help  lately,  and  my  wife  has  to 
wash  and  tend  to  everything  about  the  house  herself. 

I  knew  it  wouldn't  be  safe  for  me  to  go  out — as  it  was  a  raining  at 
the  time — but  I  thought  I'd  risk  it  anyhow.  So  I  went  out,  pick'd  up  a  few 
chunks  of  stove- wood,  and  was  a  coming  up  the  steps  into  the  house,  wheii 
mv  feet  slipp'd  from  under  me,  and  I  fell  down  as  sudden  as  if  I'd  been  shot, 
Some  of  tlie  wood  lit  upon  my  face,  broke  down  the  bridge  of  my  nose, 
cut  my  upper  lip,  and  knock'd  out  thn-e  uf  my  rn>nt  teeth.  I  sulTorcd 
dreadfully  on  account  of  it,  jih  you  may  suj)poHe,  and  my  face  aint  well 
enough  yet  to  make  me  fit  to  bo  seen,  sp(^cially  by  the  women  folks. 
{Coughs.)  Oh,  dear!  but  that  ain't  all,  Doctor,  I've  got  fifteen  corns 
on  my  toes — and  I'm  afijard  I'm  a  going  to  have  the  "yallar  jandars." 
{Coughs) 


FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY, 


405 


THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER. 


JOHN    G.  WHITTIER 

fH,  lady  fair,  these  silks  of  mine 
Are  beautiful  and  rare, 
^  The  richest  web  of  the  Indian  loom, 
Which  beauty's  queen  might  wear. 


And  these  pearls  are  pure  and  mild 
to  behold, 
And  with  radiant  light  they  vie ; 
I  have  brought  them  with  me  a  weary  way, 
Will  my  gentle  lady  buy  ?  " 

And  the  lady  smiled  on  the  worn  old  man. 

Through  the  dark  and  clustering  curls. 
Which  veiled  her  brow  as  she  bent  to  view 

His  silks  and  glittering  pearls  ; 
And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old  man's 
hand, 

And  lightly  turned  away  ; 
But  she   paused  at   the  wanderer's  earnest 
call, 

"  My  gentle  lady,  stay  !  " 

"  Oh,  lady  fair,  I  have  yet  a  gem 

Which  a  purer  lustre  flings 
Than   the    diamond    flash    of    the    jeweled 
crown 

On  the  lofty  brow  of  kings  ; 
A  wonderful  pearl  of  exceeding  price. 

Whose  virtue  shall  not  decay  ; 
Whose  light  shall  be  as  a  spell  to  thee, 

And  a  blessing  on  thy  way ! " 

The  lady  glanced  at  the  mirroring  steel 
Where  her  form  of  grace  was  seen. 


Where  her  eyes  shone  clear  and  her  dark  locks 
waved 

Their  clasping  pearls  between. 
"  Bring  forth  thy  pearl  of  exceeding  worth. 

Thou  traveler  gray  and  old  ; 
And  name  the  price  of  th)'  precious  gem, 

And  my  pages  shall  count  thy  gold." 


The  cloud  went  off  from  the  pilgrim's  brow, 

As  a  small  and  meagre  book, 
Unchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost, 

From  his  folding  robe  he  took. 
"  Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price; 

May  it  prove  as  such  to  thee ! 
Nay,  keep  thy  gold  ;  I  ask  it  not ; 

For  the  Word  of  God  is  free." 

The  hoary  traveler  went  his  way  ; 

But  the  gift  he  left  behind 
Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work 

On  that  high-born  maiden's  mind  ; 
And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of  sin 

To  the  lowliness  of  truth, 
And  given  her  human  heart  to  God, 

In  its  beautiful  hour  of  youth. 

And  she  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls 

Where  an  evil  faith  had  power ; 
The  courtly  knights  of  her  father's  train. 

And  the  maidens  of  her  bower ; 
And  she  hath  gone  to  the  Vaudois  vales, 

By  lordly  feet  untrod. 
Where  the  poor  and  needy  of  earth  are  rich 

In  the  perfect  love  of  God. 


FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY. 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


EN  BATTLE  was  a  soldier  bold. 
And  used  to  war's  alarms  ; 
But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 
So  he  laid  down  his  arms. 


Now  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 
Said  he,  "  Let  others  shoot  -, 

For  here  I  have  my  second  leg, 
And  the  Forty-second  Foot." 


406 


JOHN  MAYNARD. 


The  army-surgeons  made  him  limbs  ; 

Said  he,  "  They're  only  pegs ; 
But  there's  as  wooden  members  quite, 

As  represent  my  legs." 

Now  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid, — 

Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray  ; 
So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours, 

When  he  devoured  his  pay. 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray ; 

She  made  him  quite  a  scoff ; 
And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs, 

Began  to  take  them  off. 

"  0  Nelly  Gray !   0  Nelly  Gray  ! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat 

Should  be  more  uniform." 

Said  she,  "  I  loved  a  soldier  once, 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave  ; 
But  I  will  never  have  a  man 

With  both  legs  in  the  grave. 

"  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes 

Your  love  I  did  allow  ; 
But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 

Another  footing  now." 

"  0  Nelly  Gray  !   0  Nelly  Gray  ! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches. 
At  duty's  call  I  left  my  legs 

In  Badajos's  breaches." 

"  Why,  then,"  said  she,  "you'vo  lost  the  feet 
Of  legs  in  war's  alarms. 


And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 
Upon  your  feats  of  arms !" 

"  0  false  and  fickle  Nellie  Gray ! 

I  know  why  you  refuse ; 
Though  I've  no  feet,  some  other  mw» 

Is  standing  in  my  shoes. 

"  I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen  your  face. 

But,  now,  a  long  farewell ! 
For  you  will  be  my  death  ; — alas ! 

You  will  not  be  mj-  Nell  !" 

Now  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray 

His  heart  so  heavy  got. 
And  life  was  such  a  burden  grown. 

It  made  him  take  a  knot. 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck 

A  rope  he  did  intwine. 
And,  for  his  second  time  in  life. 

Enlisted  in  the  line. 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam. 
And  then  removed  his  pegs  ; 

And,  as  his  legs  were  off, — of  course 
He  soon  was  off  his  legs. 

And  there  he  hung  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town  ; 
For,  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down. 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse. 

To  find  out  why  he  died, — 
And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cress-roads, 

Willi  u  st;ike  in  his  inside. 


JOHN  MA  YNARD. 


.'h. 


U.    ALOKR,  .III. 


WAS  on  Liike  Erie's  broad  oxpan.sc, 

OiK'  briglit  midsummer  day, 
Thf  g;iHant  t<teain<-r  Ocean  Queen 

.Swej.t  [iroiidly  on  her  way. 
Briglit  faces  clustered  on  the  deck, 

Or  leaning  o'er  the  side, 
Wat*;hed  careloHsly  the  feathery  foam, 

That  flecked  the  rippling  t'de. 


Ah,  who  beneath  that  cloudless  sky, 

That  smiling  bends  serene. 
Could  dream  that  danger,  awful,  vast, 

Imf)ended  o'er  the  scene — 
Could  dream  that  ere  an  liour  had  sped, 

That  frame  of  stunly  oak 
Wouhl  sink  beneath  the  lake's  l»lue  wavat 

Blackened  with  firo  and  smok*? 


JOHN  MAYNARD. 


407 


A  seaman  sought  the  captain's  side, 

A  moment  whispered  low  ; 
The  captain's  swarthy  face  grew  pale, 

He  hurried  down  below 
Alas,  too  late !     Though  quick  and  sharp 

And  clear  his  orders  came, 
No  human  effort  could  avail 

To  quench  the  insidious  flame- 

The  bad  news  quickly  reached  the  deck, 

It  sped  from  lip  to  lip. 
And  ghastly  faces  everywhere 

Looked  from  the  doomed  ship. 
"  Is  there  no  hope — no  chance  of  life  ?" 

A  hundred  lips  implore : 
"  But  one,''  the  captain  made  reply, 

"  To  run  the  ship  on  shore." 


No  terror  pales  the  helmsman's  cheek, 

Or  clouds  his  dauntles.'*  eye. 
As  in  a  sailor's  measured  tone 

His  voice  responds,  "  Ay,  Ay  !' 
Three  hundred  souls, — the  steamer's  freight — 

Crowd  forward  wild  with  fear, 
While  at  the  stern  the  dreadful  flames 

Above  the  deck  appear. 

John  Maynard  watched  the  nearing  flames, 

But  still  with  steady  hand 
He  grasped  the  wheel  and  steadfastly 

He  steered  the  ship  to  land. 
"John  Maynard,"  with  an  anxious  voice, 

The  captain  cries  once  more, 
"  Stand  by  the  wheel  five  minutes  yet, 

And  we  will  reach  the  shore.'* 


A  sailor,  whose  heroic  soul 

That  hour  should  yet  reveal — 
By  name  John  Maynard,  eastern  born. 

Stood  calmly  at  the  wheel. 
"  Head  her  southeast!"  the  captain  shouts, 

Above  the  smothered  roar 
"  Head  her  southeast  without  delay  ! 

Make  for  the  nearest  shore !'' 


Through   flames   and  smoke   that  dauntless 
heart 

Responded  firmly,  still 
Unawed,  though  face  to  face  with  death, 

"  With  God's  good  help  I  will !" 

The  flames  approach  with  giant  stridea, 
They  scorch  his  hands  and  brow  ; 


408 


WASHINGTON'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  TROOPS. 


One  arm  disabled  seeks  his  side, 

Ah,  he  is  conquered  now ! 
But  no,  his  teeth  are  firmly  set, 

He  crushes  down  the  pain, — 
His  knee  upon  the  staunchion  pressed. 

He  guides  the  ship  again. 


One  moment  yet !  one  moment  yet ! 

Brave  heart  thy  task  is  o'er ! 
The  pebbles  grate  beneath  the  keel, 

The  steamer  touches  shore. 


Three  hundred  gratefu*  voices  rise, 

In  praise  to  God  that  He 
Hath  saved  them  from  the  fearful  fire, 

And  from  the  engulfing  sea 

But  where  is  be,  that  helmsman  bold  ? 

The  captain  saw  him  reel — 
His  nerveless  hands  released  their  task. 

He  sunk  beside  the  wheel. 
The  waves  received  his  lifeless  corpse, 

Blackened  with  smoke  and  fire. 
God  rest  him  !     Hero  never  had 

A  nobler  funeral  pyre ! 


WASEINGTOirS  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  TROOPS. 


BEFORE  THE  BATTLE  OF  LONG  ISLAND,  1776. 


them. 


PJ^HE  time  is  now  near  at  hand,  which  must  probably  determine  whether 
Americans  are  to  be  freemen  or  slaves ;  whether  they  are  to  have 
any  property  they  can  call  their  own ;  whether  their  houses  and 
farms  are  to  bo  pillaged  and  destroyed,  and  themselves  consigned 
to  a  state  of  wretchedness,  from  which  no  human  efforts  will  deliver 
The  fate  of  unborn  millions  will  now  depend,  under  God,  on  the 
courage  '"and  conduct  of  this  army.  Our  cruel  and  unrelentmg  enemy 
leaves  us  only  the  choice  of  a  brave  resistance,  or  the  most  abject  sub- 
mission.    We  have,  therefore,  to  resolve  to  conquer  or  to  die. 

Our  own,  our  country's  honour,  calls  upon  us  for  a  vigorous  and 
manly  exertion  ;  and  if  we  now  shamefully  fail,  we  shall  become  infamous 
to  the  whole  world.  Let  us,  then,  rely  on  the  goodness  of  our  cause,  and 
the  aid  of  the  Supreme  Being,  in  whose  hands  victory  is,  to  animate  and 
encourage  us  to  great  and  noble  actions.  The  eyes  of  all  our  countrymen 
are  now  upon  us,  and  we  shall  have  their  blessings  and  praises,  if  happily 
wo  are  the  instruments  of  saving  them  from  the  tyranny  meditated  against 
them.  Let  us  therefore  animate  and  encourage  each  other,  and  show  the 
whole  world,  that  a  freeman  contending  for  liberty  on  his  own  ground,  is 
superior  to  any  slavish  mercenary  on  earth. 

Liberty,  property,  life,  and  honour  are  all  at  stake  ;  upon  your  cou- 
rafo  and  conduct  rest  the  hopes  of  our  bleeding  and  insulted  country  ;  our 
wives,  children,  and  parents  cxpoot  safety  from  us  only;  and  they  have 
every  reason  tfj  belie vo  that  Heaven  will  crown  with  success  so  iust  » 
cause. 


A  SNOW-STORM. 


409 


The  enemy  will  endeavor  to  intimidate  by  show  and  appearance ; 
but  remember  they  have  been  repulsed  on  various  occasions  by  a  few  brave 
Americans.  Their  cause  is  bad — their  men  are  conscious  of  it ;  and,  ii 
opposed  with  firmness  and  coolness  on  their  first  onset,  with  our  advantage 
of  works  and  knowledge  of  the  ground,  the  victory  is  most  assuredly  ours. 
Every  good  soldier  will  be  silent  and  attentive — wait  for  orders — and  re- 
3erve  his  fire  until  ho  is  sure  of  doing  execution. 


A  SNOW-STORM. 


CHARLES   G.    EASTMAN. 


I. 


And 


IS  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter  time, 
As  cold  as  it  ever  can  be  ; 
The  roar  of  the  blast  is  heard,  like 
the  chime 
Of  the  waves  on  an  angry  sea  ; 
The  moon  is  full,  but  her  silver  light 
The  storm  dashes  out  with  its  wings 
to-night ; 
over  the  skv  from  south  to  north 


Not  a  star  is  seen,  as  the  wind  comes  forth 
In  the  strength  of  a  mighty  glee. 

II. 

All  day  had  the  snow  come  down— all  day 
As  it  never  came  down  before  ; 

And  over  the  hills,  at  sunset,  lay 
Some  two  or  three  feet,  or  more ; 

The  fence  was  lost,  and  the  wall  of  stone, 


410 


A  SNOW-STORM. 


The   windows   blocked,  and   the   well-curbs 

gone ; 
The  haystack  had  grown  to  a  mountain  lift, 
And  the  wood-pile  looked  like  a  monster  drift, 
As  it  lay  by  the  farmer's  door. 

The  night  sets  in  on  a  world  of  snow. 
While  the  air  grows  sharp  and  chill, 

And  the  warning  roar  of  a  fearful  blow 
Is  heard  on  the  distant  hill ; 

And  the  Norther !  See — on  the  mountain  peak, 

In  his  breath  how  the  old  trees  writhe  and 
shriek, 

He  shouts  on  the  plain,  IIo,  ho  !    Ho,  ho  ! 

He  drives  from  his  nostrils  the  blinding  snow, 
And  growls  with  a  savage  will. 


His  nose  is  pressed  on  his  quivering  faat; 
Pray,  what  does  the  dog  do  there? 

A  fa'-mer  came  from  the  village  plain, 

But  he  lost  the  traveled  waj' ; 
And  for  hours  he  trod,  with  might  and  maia 

A  path  for  his  horse  and  sleigh ; 
But  colder  still  the  cold  wind  blew, 
And  deeper  still  the  deep  drifts  grew, 
And  his  mare,  a  beautiful  Morgan  brown, 
At  last  in  her  struggles  floundered  down, 

Where  a  log  in  a  hollow  lay. 

In  vain,  with  a  neigh  and  a  frenzied  snort. 

She  plunged  in  the  drifting  snow. 
While  her  master  urged,  till  his  breath  grew 
short. 


ni.  I       With  a  word  and  a  gontln  blow  ; 

Such  a  night  as  this  to  be  found  abroad,  But  the  Ktiow  was  (Ic'p,  an-l   Ihn  tugs  weiv 

In  the  drift*  and  the  froezinR  air,  |               tight, 

Kitfl  a  fihivering  dog  in  the  field  by  the  road,  '   IIis  hands  wcro   numb,  and   liad  lost   thei' 

With  the  snow  in  bis  shaggy  hair!  nii^lil  ; 

He  shuts  his  eyis  to  the  wind,  and  growls;  So  lie  wallow<d  bink  to  his  Imlffilli'd  sleigl^ 

He  lift.H  his  hf-ad,  an'l  moans  and  liowls;  And  strove  to  .'<lielt<'r  himself  till  day. 

Then  crourhing  low  from  thf  cutting  sluet,  With  his  coat  and  th'-  bufTalo. 


WHY  SHOULD  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MORTAL  BE  PROUD? 


411 


IV. 

He  has  given  the  last  faint  jerk  of  the  rein 

To  rouse  up  his  dying  steed, 
And  the  poor  dog  howls  to  the  blast  in  vain, 

For  help  in  his  master's  need  ; 
For  a  while  he  strives,  with  a  wistful  cry. 
To  catch  a  glance  from  his  drowsy  eye. 
And  wags  his  tail  if  the  rude  winds  flap 
The  skirt  of  the  buffalo  over  his  lap. 

And  whines  when  he  takes  no  heed. 

V. 

The  wind  goes  down,  and  the  storm  is  o'er ; 

'Tis  the  hour  of  midnight  past ; 
The  old  trees  writhe  and  bend  no  more 

In  the  whirl  of  the  rushing  blast ; 


The  silent  moon,  with  her  peaceful  light. 
Looks  down  on  the  hills,  with  snow  all  white; 
And  the  giant  shadow  of  Camel's  Hump, 
The  blasted  pine  and  the  ghostly  stump, 
Afar  on  the  plain  are  cast. 

But  cold  and  dead,  by  the  hidden  log. 
Are  they  who  came  from  the  town  : 
The  man  in  his  sleigh,  and  his  faithful  dog. 

And  his  beautiful  Morgan  brown — 
In  the  wide  snow-desert,  far  and  grand. 
With  his  cap  on  his  head,  and  the  reins  in 

his  hand. 
The  dog  with  his  nose  on  his  master's  feet, 
And  the  mare  half  seen  through  the  crusted 
sleet, 
Where  she  lay  when  she  floundered  down. 


WRY  SHOULD  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MORTAL  BE  PROUD  ? 


WILLIAM    KNOX. 


President  Lincoln's  Favorite  Poem. 


|H  !  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be 
proud  ? 

Like  a  swift-fleeting  meteor,  a  fast- 
flying  cloud, 

A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of 
the  wave, 

Man  passeth  from  life  to  his  rest  in 
the  grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall  fade, 
Be  scattered  around  and  together  be  laid ; 
And  the  young  and  the  old,  the  low  and  the 

high 
Shall  moulder  to  dust  and  together  shall  lie. 

The  infant  a  mother  attended  and  loved  ; 
The  mother  that  infant's  affection  who  proved ; 
The   husband  that  mother  and  infant  who 

blessed, — 
Each,  all,  are  away  to  their  dwellings  of  rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in 

whose  eye. 
Shone  beauty  and   pleasure, — her    triumphs 

are  by ; 


And  the  memory  of  those  who  loved  her  and 

praised 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  sceptre  hath 

borne ; 
The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  mitre  hath 

worn; 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of  the  brave, 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depth  of  the  grave. 

The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap ; 
The  herdsman  who  climbed  with  his  goats  up 

the  steep ; 
The  beggar  who  wandered  in  search  of  his 

bread. 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 

The   saint  who   enjoyed  the  communion  of 

heaven  ; 
The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unforgiven ; 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just, 
Have    quietly  mingled   their   bones  \s    the 

dust. 


412 


CAUGHT  IX  THE  MAELSTROM. 


So  the  multitude  goes,  like  the  flowers  or  the 
weed 

That  withers  away  to  let  others  succeed ; 

So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those  we  be- 
hold, 

To  repeat  every  tale  that  has  often  been 
told. 

For  we  are  the  same  our  father.^  have  been  ; 
We  see   the  same  sights  our  fathers  have 

seen ; 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  view  the 

same  sun, 
And  run  the  same  course  our  fathers  have 

run. 

The  thoughts  we   are  thinking  our  fathers 

would  think ; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  our  fathers 

would  shrink ; 
"To  the  life  we  are  clinging  they  also  would 

cling ; 
But  it  speeds  for  us  all,  like  a  bird  on  the 

wing. 

They  loved,  but  the  story  we  cannot  unfold  ; 
They  scorned,  but  the  heart  of  the  haughty 
is  cold ; 


They  grieved,  but  no  wail  from  their  slum 

bers  will  come ; 
They  joyed,  but  the  tongue  of  their  gladness 

is  dumb. 

They  died,  aye  !  they  died  ;  and  we  things 
that  are  now. 

Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow, 

Who  make  in  their  dwelling  a  transient 
abode. 

Meet  the  things  that  they  met  on  their  pil- 
grimage road. 

Yea !    hope   and  despondency,  pleasure  and 

pain, 
We  mingle  together  in  sunshine  and  rain  ; 
And  the  smiles  and  the  tears,  the  song  and 

the  dirge, 
Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon  surge. 

'Tis  the  wink  of  an  eye,  'tis  the  draught  of  a 

breath, 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness 

of  death, 
From  the  gilded  jaloon  to  the  bier  and  the 

shroud, — 
Oh !    why   should   the   spirit   of    mortal  be 

proud  ? 


CA  UGHT  IN  THE  MAELSTROM. 


CHARLES    A.    WILEY. 


^N  the  Arctic  ocean  near  the  coast  of  Norway  is  situated  the  famous 
Maelstrom  or  whirlpool.  Many  are  the  goodly  ships  that  have  been 
caught  in  its  circling  power,  and  plunged  into  the  depths  below.  On 
a  fine  spring  morning,  near  the  shore  opposite,  are  gathered  a  com- 
pany of  peasants.  The  winter  and  the  long  night  have  passed  away ; 
and,  in  accordance  with  their  ancient  custom,  they  are  holding  a  greeting 
to  the  return  of  tlie  sunlight,  and  the  verdure  of  spring.  Under  a  green 
shade  are  spread,  in  abundance,  all  the  luxuries  their  pleasant  homes  could 
afford.  In  the  grove  at  one  side  are  heard  tiie  strains  of  music,  and  the 
light  step  of  tlie  dance. 

At  the  shore  lies  a  beautiful   boat,  and  a  j)arty  near  are  prejiaring  for 
a  ride.       Soon  ;ill  thinu's  ;ir(!  in   i'i';i<lincsM,  and,  amid  the   ch<'<i'8  of  their 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  MAELSTROM.  4^3 


companions  on  shore,  they  push  gayly  away.  The  day  is  beautiful,  and 
they  row  on,  and  on.  Weary,  at  length,  they  drop  their  oars  to  rest;  but 
they  perceive  their  boat  to  be  still  moving.  Somevhat  surprised, — soon 
it  occurs  to  them  that  they  are  under  the  influence  of  the  whirlpool. 

Moving  slowly  and  without  an  effort — presently  faster,  at  length  the 
boat  glides  along  with  a  movement  far  more  delightful  than  with  oars. 
Their  friends  from  the  shore  perceive  the  boat  moving,  and  see  no  working 
of  the  oars  ;  it  flashes  upon  their  minds  that  they  are  evidently  within  the 
circles  of  the  maelstrom.  When  the  boat  comes  near  they  call  to  them, 
"  Beware  of  the  whirlpool ! "  But  they  laugh  at  fear, — they  are  too  happy 
to  think  of  returning:  "When  we  see  there  is  danger  then  we  will  return." 
Oh,  that  some  good  angel  would  come  with  warning  unto  them,  "  Unless  ye 
now  turn  back  ye  cannot  be  saved."  Like  as  the  voice  of  God  comes  to  the. 
soul  of  the  impenitent,  "  Unless  ye  mend  your  ways  ye  cannot  be  saved." 

The  boat  is  now  going  at  a  fearful  rate ;  but,  deceived  by  the  moving 
waters,  they  are  unconscious  of  its  rapidity.  They  hear  the  hollow 
rumbling  at  the  whirlpool's  centre.  The  voices  from  the  shore  are  no 
longer  audible,  but  every  effort  is  being  used  to  warn  them  of  their  danger. 
They  now,  for  the  first  time,  become  conscious  of  their  situation,  and  head 
the  boat  towards  shore.  But,  like  a  leaf  in  the  autumn  gale,  she  quivers 
under  the  power  of  the  whirlpool.  Fear  drives  them  to  frenzy  !  Two  of 
the  strongest  seize  the  oars,  and  ply  them  with  all  their  strength,  and  the 
boat  moves  towards  the  shore.  With  joy  they  cherish  hope  !  and  some,  for 
the  first  time  in  all  their  lives,  now  give  thanks  to  God, — that  they  are  saved. 
But  suddenly,  crash,  goes  an  oar !  and  such  a  shriek  goes  up  from  that 
ill-fated  band,  as  can  only  be  heard  when  a  spirit  lost,  drops  into  perdition ! 

The  boat  whirls  again  into  its  death-marked  channel,  and  skips  on 
with  the  speed  of  the  wind.  The  roar  at  the  centre  grinds  on  their  ears, 
like  the  grating  of  prison  doors  on  the  ears  of  the  doomed.  Clearer,  and 
more  deafening  is  that  dreadful  roar,  as  nearer  and  still  nearer  the 
vessel  approaches  the  centre;  then  whirling  for  a  moment  on  that  awful 
brink,  she  plunges  with  her  freight  of  human  souls  into  that  dreadful 
yawning  hollow,  where  their  bodies  shall  lie  in  their  watery  graves  till  the 
sea  gives  up  its  dead ! 

And  so,  every  year,  ay,  every  month,  thousands,  passing  along  in 
the  boat  of  life,  enter  almost  unaware  the  fatal  circles  of  the  wine-cup. 
And,  notwithstanding  the  earnest  voices  of  anxious  fi'iends,  "  Beware  of 
the  gutter !  of  the  grave  !  of  hell!"  they  continue  their  course  until  the 
"force  of  habit"  overpowers  them;  and,  cursing  and  shrieking,  they  whirl 
for  a  time  on  the  crater  of  the  maelstrom,  and  are  plunged  below. 


414 


THE  FIRST  PATTiY. 


WII^D  AND  BAIK 


RICHARD    H.    STODDARD. 


>ff2^ 


Ij^pATTLE  the  window,  Winds ! 

a|^!^      Rain,  drip  on  the  panes  ! 

^^^3^  There    are   tears    and   sighs   in   our 

x  hearts  and  eyes, 

1  And  a  weary  weight  on  our  brains. 

The  gray  sea  heaves  and  heaves, 
On  the  dreary  flats  of  sand  ; 


And  the  blasted  limb  of  the  churchyard  ye'w 
It  shakes  like  a  ghostly  hand  ! 

The  dead  are  engulfed  beneath  it, 

Sunk  in  the  grassy  waves  : 
But  we  have  more  dead  in  our  hearts  to-day 

Than  the  Earth  in  all  her  graves! 


THE  FIRSl  PARTY. 


JOSEPHINE    POLLARD. 


>S  Annabel  McCarty 
Was  invited  to  a  party, 
x'^T^  "  Your  company  from  four  to  ten," 


11' 


^ 


the  invitation  said  ; 
And  the  maiden  was  delighted 
To  think  she  was  invited 
To  sit  up  till  the  hour  when  the  big 

folks  went  to  bed. 


The  crazy  little  midget 
Ran  and  told  the  news  to  Bridget, 
Who  clapped  her  hands,  and  danced  a  jig,  to 
Annabel's  delight, 
And  said,  with  accents  hearty, 
"  'Twill  be  the  swatest  party 
If  ye're  there  yerself,  me  darlint !    I  wish  it 
was  to-night!" 

Tlie  great  display  of  frilling 
Wiifi  positively  killing; 
And,  oh,  the  little  booties !   and  the  lovely 
sash  HO  wide ! 
And  the  gloves  bo  very  cunning. 
She  was  altogether  "  stunning," 
And  the  whole  McCarty  family  regarded  her 
with  pride. 

They  gave  minute  directions, 
With  cojiioiiH  interjections 
Of  "sit  up  straight'"  and  "don't  do  tliis-^jr 
thai — 'twould  be  absurd  !" 


But,  what  with  their  caressing. 
And  the  agony  of  dressing. 
Miss  Annabel  McCarty  didn't  hear  a  single 
word. 

There  was  music,  there  was  dancing. 
And  the  sight  was  most  entrancing, 
As  if  fairyland  and  floral  band  were  holding 
jubilee; 
There  was  laughing,  there  was  pouting ; 
There  was  singing,  there  was  shou^'nc; 
And  old  and  young  together  made  a  carnival 
of  glee. 

Miss  Annabel  McCarty 
Was  the  youngest  at  the  party. 
And  every  one  remarked  that  she  was  be.iu- 
tifully  dressed ; 
Like  a  doll  she  sat  demurely 
On  the  sofa,  thinking  surely 
It  would  never  do  for  her  to  run  and  frolic 
with  the  rest. 

Tlie  noise  kept  growing  louder  ; 
The  naughty  boys  would  crowd  iier ; 
"  I  think  you're  very  rude  indeed  !"  tlio  little 
lady  .'^aid  ; 
And  then,  without  a  warning. 
Her  home  intitructions  scorning. 
She  screamed :   "  1  want  my  supper— and  1 
want  to  (JO  to  bed!" 


THE  SEA-BHORE  AND  THE  MOUNTAINS. 


415 


Now  big  folks  who  are  older, 
Need  not  laugh  at  her,  nor  scold  her, 
For  doubtless,  if  the  truth  were  known,  we've 
often  felt  inclined 


To  leave  the  ball  or  party, 
As  did  Annabel  McCarty, 
Bnt  we  hadn't   half  the  courage  and   we 
couldn't  speak  our  mind  ! 


THE  SEA-SHORE  AND    THE  MOUNTAINS 


OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES. 


i^  HxlVE  lived  by  the  sea-shore  and  by  the  mountains.     No,  I  am  not 
1^     going  to  say  which  is  best.     The  one  where  your  place  is,  is  the  best 
A     for  you.     But  this  difference  is :    you  can  domesticate  mountains, 
t       but  the  sea  is  ferce  naturce.  You  may  have  a  hut,  or  know  the  owner 
jt       of  one,  on  the  mountain-side  ;  you  see  a  light  half-way  up  its  ascent 
in  the  evening,  and  you  know  there  is  a  home,  and  you  might  share 
it,     You  have  noted  certain  trees,  perhaps ;  you  know  the  particular  zone 
where  the  hemlocks  look  so  black  in  October,  when  the  maples  and  beeches 
have  faded.     All  its  reliefs  and  intaglios  have  electrotyped  themselves  in 
the  medallions  that  hang  round  the  walls  of  your  memory's  chamber.    The 
sea  remembers  nothing.     It  is  feline.     It  licks  your  feet, — its  huge  flanka 
purr  very  pleasantly  for  you ;  but  it  will  crack  your  bones  and  eat  you, 
for  all  that,  and  wipe  the  crimsoned  foam  from  its  jaws  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.     The  mountains  give  their  lost  children  berries  and  water;  the 
sea  mocks  their  thirst  and  lets  them  die.     The  mountains  have  a  grand, 
stupid,  lovable  tranquillity ;  the  sea  has  a  fascinating,  treacherous  intelli- 
gence.    The  mountains  lie  about  like  huge  ruminants,  their  broad  backs 
awful  to  look  upon,  but  safe  to  handle.     The  sea  smooths  its  silver  scales 
28 


416 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


until  you  cannot  see  their  joints, — but  their  shining  is  that  of  a  snake's 
belly,  after  all.  In  deeper  suggestiveness  I  find  as  great  a  diflPerence.  The 
mountains  dwart  mankind  and  foreshorten  the  procession  of  its  long  gene- 
rations. The  sea  drowns  out  humanity  and  time ;  it  has  no  sympathy  with 
either ;  for  it  belongs  to  eternity,  and  of  that  it  sings  its  monotonous  song 
for  ever  and  ever. 

Yet  I  should  love  to  have  a  little  box  by  the  sea-shore.  I  should 
love  to  gaze  out  on  the  wild  feline  element  from  a  front  window  of  my  own, 
just  as  I  should  love  to  look  on  a  caged  panther,  and  see  it  stretch  its 
shining  length,  and  then  curl  over  and  lap  its  smooth  sides,  and  by-and-by 
begin  to  lash  itself  into  rage,  and  show  its  white  teeth,  and  spring  at  its 
bars,  and  howl  the  cry  of  its  mad,  but,  to  me,  harmless  fury. 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


LESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned  up  pantaloons. 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 

Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 

With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 

Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace ! 

From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy  ; 

I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy. 

Prince  thou  art — the  grown-up  man. 

Only  is  republican. 

Let  the  rnillion-doUarod  ride! 

Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 

Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy, 

In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye  : 

Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy, 

BleKsings  on  thf;  barefoot  boy. 

O !  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
81ccp  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
II(;altb  tliat  mocks  the  (lovUn't^  rules. 
Knowledge  n'-ver  barned  of  schools  : 
Of  the  wild  liee's  morning  nliaHo, 
Of  the  wild  flowfr's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl,  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 


How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young. 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung  ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  fre.'ihest  berries  grow. 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine. 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine , 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay. 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  ! 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy. 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy. 

0  for  boyhood's  time  of  Juno, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  tilings  I  heard  or  saw. 
Mo,  (heir  master,  waited  for! 

1  was  rich  in  flowiT.s  and  trees, 
Humming  birds  and  honey-bees; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade ; 


'  Blessings  <*    thee,  little  ma' 


LINES  ON  A  SKELETON. 


417 


For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight, 
Through  the  day,  and  through  the  night : 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall. 
Talked  -,vith  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond. 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees. 
Apples  of  Hesperides! 
Still,  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too, 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy. 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

0,  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread. 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood. 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude ! 
O'er  me  like  a  regal  tent. 
Cloudy  ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold  ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra ; 


And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir. 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  ;  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 


Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man  ! 
Live  and  laugh  as  boyhood  can  ; 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward. 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat ; 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride. 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod. 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod. 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil. 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil, 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  1  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ' 


LINES  ON  A  SKELETON. 


^EHOLD  this  ruin  !  'tis  a  skull. 
Once  of  ethereal  spirit  full! 
This  narrow  cell  was  life's  retreat. 
This  space  was  thought's  mysterious 

seat. 
^Vhat  beauteous  pictures  filled  this 
epot — 

What  dreams  of  pleasure,  long  forgot ! 
Nor  grief,  nor  joy,  nor  hope,  nor  fear. 
Has  left  one  trace  of  record  there. 

Beneath  this  mouldering  canopy 

Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye : 

Yet  start  not  at  that  dismal  void  ; 

If  social  love  that  eye  employed. 

If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleamed. 

But  through  the  dew  of  kindness  beamed, 

That  eye  shall  be  forever  bright 

When  stars  and  sun  have  lost  their  light. 


Here,  in  this  silent  cavern,  hung 
The  ready,  swift,  and  tuneful  tongue; 
If  falsehood's  honey  it  disdained. 
And,    when    it    could    not    praise,    waa 

chained : 
If  bold  in  virtue's  cause  it  spoke. 
Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke. 
That  tuneful  tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 
When  death  unveils  eternity. 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine, 
Or  with  its  envied  rubies  shine  ? 
To  hew  the  rock  or  wear  the  gem. 
Can  nothing  now  avail  to  them  : 
But  if  the  page  of  truth  they  sought, 
Ami  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought. 
These  hands  a  richer  meed  snail  claim 
Than  all  that  waits  on  wealth  or  fameJ 


418 


YAWCOB  STRAUSS. 


Avails  it  whether  bare  or  shod 
Those  feet  the  path  of  duty  trod  ? 
If  from  the  bower  of  joy  they  sped 
To  soothe  affliction's  humble  bed  ; 


If  grandeur's  guilty  bribe  they  spurned, 
And  home  to  virtue's  lap  returned, 
Those  feet  with  angel  wings  shall  vie, 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky  ! 


THE  EBB-TIDE. 


R.  SOUTHEY. 


I^LOWLY  thy  flowing  tide 
'^^j^i   Came  in,  old  Avon  !  Scarcely  did  mine 
f-m  eyes, 

^h     As  watchfully  I  roamed   thy  green- 
wood side. 
Perceive  its  gentle  rise. 

"With  many  a  stroke  and  strong 
The   laboring   boatmen  upward  plied  their 

oars; 
Yet  little  way  they  made,  tho'  laboring  long 
Between  thy  winding  shores. 

Now  down  thine  ebbing  tide 
The  unlabored  boat  falls  rapidly  along ; 
The  solitary  helmsman  sits  to  guide. 

And  sings  an  idle  song. 

Now  o'er  the  rocks  that  lay 
So  silent  late  the  shallow  current  roars  ; 


Fast  flow  thy  waters  on  their  seaward  way, 
Through  wider-spreading  shores. 

Avon,  I  gaze  and  know 
The  lesson  emblemed  in  thy  varying  way ; 
It  speaks  of  human  joys  that  rise  so  slow, 

So  rapidly  decay. 

Kingdoms  which  long  have  stood 
And  slow  to  strength  and  power  attained  at 

last. 
Thus   from    the   summit   of   high    Fortune') 
flood. 
They  ebb  to  ruin  fast. 

Thus  like  thy  flow  appears 
Time's  tardy  course  to  manhood's  envied  stage. 
Alas  !  how  hurryingly  the  ebbing  years 

Then  hasten  to  old  age  ! 


YAWCOB   8TRAUSS. 


CHARLES   F.    ADAMS. 


HAF  von  funny  leedle  poy, 

Vot  gomes  Bchuflt  to  mine  knee  ; 
Der  qucerent  schap,  der  Greatest  rogue, 
As  efer  you  dit  bco. 
J.       He  runs,  und  schumj)!',  und  sclunasbo.s 
I  dingH 

I         In  all  bart«  off  der  lioiise  : 
But  vot  off  dot?  he  va,M  mine  son, 
Mine  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 


He  got  der  measles  und  der  mumbs 

Und  cforyding  dot's  oudt; 
He  sbills  mine  glass  off  lager  liicr, 

Foots  ."clinuff  indo  mine  kraut, 
lie  fills  mine  pipe  mit  Limburg  cheese.- 

Dot  vas  der  roughest  chouse  : 
I'd  dakc  dot  vrom  no  oder  poy 

But  Icodlc  Yawcob  Strauss. 


YAWCOB  STRAUSS. 


41& 


He  dakes  der  milk-ban  for  a  dhrum, 
Und  cuts  mine  cane  in  dwo, 

To  make  der  schticks  to  beat  it  mit,- 
Mine  cracious  dot  vas  dnie  ! 


Und  vhere  der  plaze  goes  vrom  der  lamp 

Vene'er  der  glim  I  douse. 
How  gan  I  all  dose  dings  eggsblain 

To  dot  schmall  Yawcob  Strauss  ? 


I  ilinks  mine  bed  vas  schplit  abart, 

He  kicks  oup  sooch  a  touse : 
But  nefcr  mind  ;  der  poys  vas  few 

Like  dot  young  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  aaks  me  questions  sooch  as  dese : 
Who  baints  mine  nose  so  red  ? 

Who  vas  it  cut  dot  schmoodth  blace  oudt 
Vrom  Jer  hair  ubon  mine  hed  ? 


I  somedimes  dink  I  schalLgo  vild 

Mit  sooch  a  grazy  poy, 
Und  vish  vonce  more  I  gould  haf  reet, 

Und  beaceful  dimes  enshoy  ; 
But  ven  he  vas  ashleep  in  ped, 

So  guiet  as  a  mouse, 
I  prays  der  Lord,  "  Dake  anyding, 

But  leaf  dot  Yawcob  Strauss." 


420  ARTEMUS  WARi)  VISITS  THE  SHAKERS. 


ARTEMUS  WARD  VISITS  THE  SHAKERS. 


CHARLES  F.  BROWN. 


'•If*:^ 


1l.  shaker,"  sed  I,  "you  see  before  you  a  Babe  in  the  Woods, 
so  to  speak,  and  he  axes  a  shelter  of  you." 
^''  ^  "Yay,"  said  the  Shaker,  and  he  led  the  way  into  the 

house,  another  bein  sent  to  put  my  horse  and  wagon  under 

kiver. 

A  solum  female,  lookin  somewhat  like  a  last  year's  bean-pole 
stuck  into  a  long  meal-bag,  cum  in  and  axed  me  was  I  athirst  and  did  I 
hunger  ?  To  which  I  asserted,  "  A  few."  She  went  orf,  and  I  endeavored 
to  open  a  conversation  with  the  old  man. 

"Elder,  I  spect,"  sed  I. 

"  Yay,"  he  said. 

"  Health's  good,  I  reckon  ?" 

"Yay." 

"What's  the  wages  of  a  Elder,  when  he  understands  his  bizness — or 
do  you  devote  your  sarvices  gratooitous  ?" 

"  Yay." 

''  Storm  nigh,  sir  ?" 

"Yay." 

"  If  the  storm  continues  there'll  be  a  mess  underfoot,  hay  ?" 

"Yay." 

"  If  I  may  be  so  bold,  kind  sir,  what's  the  price  of  that  pccoolcr  kind 
of  wesket  you  wear,  includin  trimmins?" 

"Yay." 

T  pawsed  a  minit,  and,  think  in  I'd  be  faseshus  with  him  and  see  how 
that  would  go,  I  slapt  him  on  the  shoulder,  burst  into  a  hearty  lari",  and 
told  him  that  as  a  yayer  he  had  no  living  ekel. 

He  jumped  up  as  if  bilin  water  had  been  squirted  into  liis  cars, 
groaned,  rolled  his  eyes  up  tords  the  sealin  and  sed : 

"You're  a  man  of  sin!" 

He  then  walked  out  of  the  room. 

Directly  thar  cum  in  two  young  Shakeresses,  as  putty  and  slick 
lookin  galls  as  I  ever  met.  It  is  troo  they  was  drost  in  moal-bags  like  the 
old  one  I'd  met  previsly,  and  their  shiny,  silky  hair  was  hid  from  sight  by 
long,  white  caps,  such  as  I  spose  female  goats  wear;  but  tbcir  eyes  sj)ar- 
kled  like  diamonds,  their  cheeks  was  like  ro.sea,  und  ilicy  \v;us  cliarmin  cnnfl 


THE  LAND  0'  THE  LEAL, 


421 


to  make  a  man  throw  stuns  at  his  grandmother,  if  they  axed  him  to.  They 
commenst  clearing  away  the  dishes,  casting  shy  glances  at  me  all  the  time. 
I  got  excited.     I  forgot  Betsey  Jane  in  my  rapter,  and  sez  I, 

"  My  pretty  dears,  how  air  you  ?" 

"  We  air  well,"  they  solumly  sed. 

"Where  is  the  old  man?"  said  I,  in  a  soft  voice. 

"  Of  whom  dost  thou  speak — Brother  Uriah  ?" 

"I  mean  that  gay  and  festive  cuss  who  calls  me  a  man  of  sin. 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  his  name  wasn't  Uriah." 

"He  has  retired." 

"Wall,  my  pretty  dears,"  sez  I,  "let's  have  some  fun.  Let's  play  puss 
in  the  corner.     What  say  ?" 

"Air  you  a  Shaker,  sir?"  they  asked. 

"Wall,  my  pretty  dears,  I  haven't  arrayed  my  proud  form  in  a  long 
weskit  yet,  but  if  they  wus  all  like  you  perhaps  I'd  jine  'em.  As  it  is,  I 
am  willing  to  be  Shaker  protemporary." 

They  was  full  of  fun.  I  seed  that  at  fust,  only  they  was  a  little 
skeery.  I  tawt  'em  puss  in  the  corner,  and  sich  like  plase,  and  we  had  a 
nice  time,  keepin  quiet  of  course,  so  that  the  old  man  shouldn't  hear. 
When  we  broke  up,  sez  I : 

"My  pretty  dears,  ear  I  go,  you  have  no  objections  have  you?  to  a 
innersent  kiss  at  partin  ?" 

"  Yay,"  they  said,  and  I — yayed. 


THE  LAND  0'    THE  LEAL. 


LADY    NAIENE. 


j)'M  wearin'  awa',  Jean, 

Like  snow  in  a  thaw,  Jean ; — 
I'm  wearin'  awa 

To  the  Lan4  o'  the  Leah 
There's  nae  sonow  there,  Jean  ; 
I       There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
I"       The  day  is  ever  fair 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leah 

You've  l)een  leal  and  true,  Jean  ; 
Your  task's  ended  now,  Jean  ! 
And  I'll  welcome  you 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


Then  dry  that  tearfu'  ee,  Jean  ! 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean  ; 
And  angels  wait  on  me 

To  the  Land  o'  the  LeaL 

Our  bonnie  bairn's  there,  Jean, 
She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  Jean, 
And  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal ! 
But  sorrow's  sel'  wears  past,  Jean, 
And  joy's  a-comin'  fiist,  Jean : 
The  joy  that's  aye  to  last. 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal 


422 


THE  OWL. 


A'  our  friends  are  gane,  Jean  ; 
We've  lang  been  left  alane,  Jean ; 
We'll  a'  meet  again 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


Now,  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean  ' 
This  world's  care  is  vain,  Jean ; 
We'll  meet,  an'  aj"-'  be  fain, 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


AS  SHIPS  BECALMED. 


«^^ 


ARTHUR   H.  CLOUGH. 


\>S  ships  becalmed  at  eve,  thai  lay 

With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 
Two  towers  of  sail,  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  des- 
cried. 

When  fell  the  night,  up  sprang  the 
L  breeze, 

And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied ; 
Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  selfsame  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side : 

E'en  80 — but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged. 

Brief  absence  joined  anew,  to  feel, 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged  ? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled. 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered; 


Ah  !  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed 
Or  wist  what  first  with  dawn  appeared. 

To  veer,  how  vain  !     On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks  I — in  light,  in  darkness  too  ! 

Through   winds    and    tides   one   compass 
guides : 
To  that  and  your  own  selves  be  true. 

But  0  blithe  breeze  !  and  0  great  seas  ! 

Though  ne'er  that  earliest  parting  past. 
On  your  wide  plain  thej'  join  again, 

Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought,—* 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare ; 

0  bounding  breeze,  0  rushing  seas. 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there. 


THE  OWL. 


BARRY    CORNWALL. 


The  boldest  will  shrink  away  I 

0,  when  the  night  falls,  and  roosts  the 

fowl. 
Then,  then,  is  the  rcigii  of  tho  liurncd  owl ! 


SKX  the  hollow  tree,  in  the  old  gray  tower, 
^^       The  spectral  owl  doth  dwell ; 
fl»f   Dull,  liated,  despised,   in  tlio  Kun.shino 
^|'«  hour. 

'*         But  at  dusk  he's  abroad  and  well !        1 

•  ■     Not  a  bird  of  tlie  forest  e'er  mates  willi      And  tlie  <iwl  liiitli  a  bridi-,  who  is  frind  and 
him;  1  bold, 

All  mock  liim  outright  by  day  ;  j       And  lovetli  the  wood's  deep  gloom  ; 

But  at  night,  when  the  woods  grow  still  and      And,  with  oyca  like  tho  sliino  of  tho  mooa- 
dim,  stono  cold, 


THE  NOTCH  OF  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 


423 


She  awaiteth  her  ghastly  groom ; 

We  know  not  alway 

Not   a   feather  she  moves,   not  a  carol  she 

Who  are  kings  by  day, 

sings, 

As  she  waits  in  her  tree  so  still ; 

■—  -  -               .        ^^._ 

But  when   her   heart   heareth   his   flapping 

-^^^S^i 

wings, 

'\^^^^^Bi 

She  hoots  out  her  welcome  shrill  1 

^SjS^^mmSlwS^ 

0  !  when  the  moon  shines,  and  dogs  do 

W^S^^ME^Sm 

howl, 

^^B^^Sm^m 

Then,  then,  is  the  joy  of  the  horned  owl ! 

w^^^SSt^M 

Monrn    not    for    the   owl,  nor   his   gloomy 

plight!   . 

B^^af^S^H^P; 

The  owl  hath  his  share  of  good  : 

pBflMwMMMEJ^eaj^^^^^ 

If  a  prisoner  he  be  in  broad  daylight. 

BiHBH^M^I^E 

He  is  lord  in  the  dark  greenwood ! 

^uB^KB^SSm 

Nor  lonely  the  bird,  nor  his  ghastly  mate, 

ijHgjwiKB|^^^' 

They  are  each  unto  each  a  pride  ; 

BB^^^g^^^s 

Thrice  fonder,  perhaps,  since  a  strange,  dark 

^^^^^^^^MSB^B^^^S^a^^^^^'^ 

fate 

Hath  rent  them  from  all  beside ! 

^B^^FMk^^ 

So,  when  the  night  falls,  and  dogs  do 

^^M  i^^^ 

howl, 

Sing,  ho!  for   the  reign  of  the  horned 

But  the  king  of  the  night  is 

the  bold 

owl! 

brown  owl ! 

TEE  NOTCH  OF  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 


TIMOTHY    DWIGHT. 


'he  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains  is  a  phrase  appropriated  to  a 
very  narrow  defile,  extending  two  miles  in  length,  between  two 
'*^^     huge  diifs  apparently  rent  asunder  by  some  vast  convulsion  of 

nature.      This  convulsion  was,  in  my  own  view,  that  of  the  deluge. 

There  are  here,  and  throughout  New  England,  no  eminent  proofs  of 
volcanic  violence,  nor  any  strong  exhibitions  of  the  power  of  earthquakes. 
Nor  has  history  recorded  any  earthquake  or  volcano  in  other  countries  of 
sufficient  efficacy  to  produce  the  phenomena  of  this  place.  The  objects 
rent  asunder  are  too  great,  the  ruin  is  too  vast  and  too  complete,  to  have 
been  accomplished  by  these  agents.  The  change  seems  to  have  been 
effected  when  the  surface  of  the  earth  extensively  subsided ;  when  countries 
and  continents  assumed  a  new  face;  and  a  general  commotion  of  the 
elements  produced  a  disruption  of  some  mountains,  and  merged  others 
beneath  the  common  level  of  desolation.      Nothing  less  than  this  will 


424  THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

account  for  the  sundering  of  a  long  range  of  great  rocks,  or  rather  of  vast 
mountains ;  or  for  the  existing  evidences  of  the  immense  force  by  which 
the  rupture  was  effected. 

The  entrance  of  the  chasm  is  formed  by  two  roclis,  standing  perpen- 
dicularly, at  the  distance  of  twenty-two  feet  from  each  other ;  one  about 
twenty  feet  in  height,  the  other  about  twelve.  Half  of  the  space  is 
occupied  by  the  brook  mentioned  as  the  head-stream  of  the  Saco ;  the  other 
half  by  the  road.  The  stream  is  lost  and  invisible  beneath  a  mass  of  frag- 
ments, partly  blown  out  of  the  road,  and  partly  thrown  down  by  some 
great  convulsion. 

"When  we  entered  the  Notch,  we  were  struck  with  the  wild  and 
solemn  appearance  of  every  thing  before  us.  The  scale  on  which  all  the 
objects  in  view  were  formed  was  the  scale  of  grandeur  only.  The  rocks, 
rude  and  ragged  in  a  manner  rarely  paralleled,  were  fashioned  and  piled  by 
a  hand  operating  only  in  the  boldest  and  most  irregular  manner.  As  we 
advanced,  these  appearances  increased  rapidly.  Huge  masses  of  granite, 
of  every  abrupt  form,  and  hoary  with  a  moss  which  seemed  the  product  of 
ages,  recalling  to  the  mind  the  saxum  vetustum  of  Virgil,  speedily  rose  to 
a  moimtainous  height.  Before  us  the  view  widened  fast  to  the  southeast. 
Behind  us  it  closed  almost  instantaneously,  and  presented  nothing  to  the 
eye  but  an  impassable  barrier  of  mountains. 

About  half  a  mile  from  the  entrance  of  the  chasm,  we  saw,  in  full 
view,  the  most  beautiful  cascade,  perhaps,  in  the  world.  It  issued  from  a 
mountain  on  the  right,  about  eight  hundred  feet  above  the  subjacent  valley, 
and  at  the  distance  from  us  of  about  two  miles.  The  stream  ran  over  a 
series  of  rocks  almost  perpendicular,  with  a  course  so  little  broken  as  to 
preserve  the  appearance  of  a  uniform  current ;  and  yet  so  far  disturbed  as 
to  be  perfectly  white.  The  sun  shone  with  the  clearest  splendor,  from  a 
station  in  the  heavens  the  most  advantageous  to  our  prospect ;  and  the 
cascade  glittered  down  the  vast  steep  like  a  stream  of  burnished  silver. 


77/y>'  AU>'SEi\AL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 


ir.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


nfTlTlfliS   in  the  Araenal.     From  floor  to 
•{J^-  ceiling, 

liiko  Ji  liugf!  organ,  rise  tlie   liiirn- 
■'  ishod  arms ; 

But  from  tbcir  Bilf;nt  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startlea  the  villagCB  with  strange  alarma. 


Ah  !  what  a  HOund  will  riwo — how  wild  and 
dreary — 
When  the  death  iin^el  touches  those  swift 
keyw! 
What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  tlnn  awful  symphouiea. 


THE  CHARCOAL  MAN. 


426 


I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus — 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  liave  gone  be- 
fore us, 
lu  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer ; 

Through  Cimbric  forest  roars    the  Norse- 
man's song; 
And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle  bell  with    fearful 
din; 
And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpents' 
skin  ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  vil- 
lage; 
The  shout  that  every   prayer   for   mercy 
drowns ; 
The  soldiers'  revel  in  the  midst  of  pillage  ; 
The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns  ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched 
asunder. 

The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade — 
And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 

The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 


Is  it,  0  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such   accursed  instruments  as  these. 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and   kindly 
voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies? 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world  with 
terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps 
and  courts, 
Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error. 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  nor  forts ; 

The  warrior's   name  would  be   a   name  ab- 
horred ; 

And  every  nation  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of  Cain. 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  genera- 
tions. 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then 
cease : 
And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 
I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say, 
"  Peace ! " 

Peace  ! — and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portala 
The  blast  of  war's  great  organ  shakes  the 
skies ; 

But,  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


THE  CHARCOAL  MAN. 


J.   T.   TROWBRIDGE, 


[sIHOUGH  rudely  blows  the  w^intry  blast, 
^    And  sifting  snows  fall  white  and  fast, 
cis^i^-^    Mark  Haley  drives  along  the  street, 
A  Perched  high  upon  his  wagon  seat ; 

4)     His  sombre  face  the  storm  defies, 
J      And  thus  from  morn  till  eve  he  cries, — 

"  Charco' !  charco' !" 
While  echo  faint  and  far  replies, — 

"  Hark,  0  !  Hark,  0  !" 
"  Charco' !" — "  Hark,  O  !"-Such  cheery  sounds 
Attend  him  on  his  dailv  rounds. 


The  dust  begrimes  his  ancient  h»t ; 

His  coat  is  darker  far  than  that ; 

'Tis  odd  to  see  his  sooty  form 

All  speckled  with  the  feathery  storm ; 

Yet  in  his  honest  bosom  lies 

Nor  spot,  nor  speck,  though  still  he  cries, — 

"  Charco' !    charco'  !" 
And  many  a  roguish  lad  replies, — 

"  Ark,  ho!  ark,  ho  !" 
"  Charco' !"-"  Ark,  ho  !"-Such  various  soumds 
Announce  Mark  Haley's  morning  rounds. 


426 


DOW'S  FLAT— 1856. 


Thus  all  the  cold  and  wintry  day- 
He  labors  much  for  little  pay  ; 
Vet  feels  no  less  of  happiness 
Than  many  a  richer  man,  I  guess, 
When  through  the  shades  of  eve  he  spies 
The  light  of  his  own  home,  and  cries, — 

"  Charco' !  charco'  !" 
And  Martha  from  the  door  replies, — 

"  Mark,  ho !  Mark,  ho  !" 
"  Charco' !"-"  Mark,  ho  l"-Such  joy  abounds 
When  he  has  closed  his  daily  rounds. 

The  hearth  is  warm,  the  fire  is  bright,  • 
And  while  his  hand,  washed  clean  and  white, 
Holds  Martha's  tender  hand  once  more, 
His  glowing  face  bends  fondly  o'er 
The  crib  wherein  his  darling  lies, 


And  in  a  coaxing  tone  he  cries, 

"  Charco'  !  charco' !" 
And  ba'oy  with  a  laugh  replies, — 

'■  Ah,  go !  ah,  go  !" 
"  Charco' !"-"  Ah,  go  ;" — while  at  the  sounui! 
The  mother's  heart  with  gladness  bounds. 

Then  honored  be  the  charcoal  man  ! 
Though  dusky  as  an  African, 
'Tis  not  for  you,  that  chance  to  be 
A  little  better  clad  than  he. 
His  honest  manhood  to  despise. 
Although  from  morn  till  eve  he  cries, — 

"  Charco' !  charco'  !  " 
While  mocking  echo  still  replies, — 

"  Hark,  0  1  hark,  0  !" 
"  Charco'  !  Hark,  0  !"  Long  may  these  sounds 
Proclaim  Mark  Haley's  daily  rounds ! 


DOW'S  FLAT— 1866. 


-.# 


F.    BRET   HARTE. 


■^^ 


11! 


•UW'ri  Flat.     That's  its  name. 
And  I  reckon  that  you 
Are  a  stranger  ?     The  same  ? 

Well,  I  thought  it  was  true. 
For  thar  isn't  a  man  on  the  river  as 
c&Q'tspotthe  jilace  at  first  view. 

It  was  called  after  Dow, — 

Which  the  same  was  an  ass, — 
And  as  to  the  how 

That  the  thing  came  to  pass, — 
Just  tie  up  your  hoss  to  that  buckeye,  and 
sit  ye  down  here  in  the  grass  : 

You  see  this  yer  Dow 

Hcd  the  wor.st  kind  of  luck  ; 
He  slipped  up  Homehow 
On  each  tiling  that  fie  struck. 
Why,  of  he'd   ha'   straddled   that  fence-rail, 
the  derned  thing  'ed  get  up  and  buck. 

He  mined  on  the  bar 

Till  ho  couldn't  pay  rates; 
Ho  was  smashed  by  a  car 

When  lie  tunnelled  with   liate.'f ; 
Aad  right  on  the  top  of  bis  tremble  kem  his 
wile  and  tiv«!  kid.'^  from  the  States. 


It  was  rough — mighty  rough; 

But  the  boys  they  stood  by, 

And  they  brought  him  the  stuff 

For  a  house  on  the  sly  ; 

And  the  old  woman — well,  she  did  washing, 

and  took  on  when  no  one  was  nigh. 

But  this  yer  luck  o'  Dow's 

Was  so  powerful  mean 
That  the  spring  near  his  hou.se 
Dried  right  up  on  the  green  ; 
And  he  sunk  forty  feet  down  for  water,  bui 
nary  a  drop  to  be  seen. 

Then  the  bar  petered  out. 

And  the  boys  wouldn't  stay  -. 
And  the  chills  got  about, 
And  his  wife  fell  away, 
B'jt  Dow  in  his  well,  kept  a  peggin'  in  hi.-? 
usual  ridikilous  way. 

One  day, — it  was  June, 

And  a  year  ago,  jost, — 
T'/iirt  D(Av  kein  at  noon 
To  his  work,  like  the  rohl, 
With  a  shovel  and  pick  on  bis  shouMrr,  and 
a  Derringer  hid  in  hm  breast. 


MOUNTAINS. 


427 


He  goes  to  the  well, 

And  he  stands  on  the  brink, 
And  stops  for  a  spell. 
Just  to  listen  and  think ; 
/or  the  sun  in  his  eyes,  (jest  like  this,  sir,) 
you  see,  kinder  made  the  cuss  blink. 

His  two  ragged  gals 

In  the  gulch  were  at  play. 
And  a  gownd  that  was  Sal's 
Kinder  flapped  on  a  bay  ; 
Not  much  for  a  man  to  be  leavin',  but  his 
all, — as  I've  heerd  the  folks  say. 

And, — that's  a  pert  boss 

Thet  you've  got,  ain't  it  now  ? 
What  might  be  her  cost  ? 

Eh  ?    0 !— Well,  then,  Dow,— 
Let's  see, —  well,  that  forty-foot  grave  wasn't 
his,  sir,  that  day,  anyhow. 

For  a  blow  of  his  pick 

Sorter  caved  in  the  side. 
And  he  looked  and  turned  sick, 

Then  he  trembled  and  cried. 


For 


you    see   the 
"Water?"— be 


dern   cuss   bed    struck — 
g   your    parding,  young 


man,  there  you  lied. 


It  was  gold,  in  the  quartz, 

And  it  ran  all  alike ; 
I  reckon  five  oughts 

Was  the  worth  of  that  strike ; 
And  that  house  with  the  coopilow's  hiB'n— 
which  the  same  isn't  bad  for  a  Pike. 

Thet's  why  it's  Dow's  Flat; 

And  the  thing  of  it  is 
That  he  kinder  got  that 
Through  sheer  contrariness ; 
For  'twas  water  the  derned  cuss  was  seekin', 
and  his  luck  made  him  certain  to  miss. 

Thet's  so.     Thar's  your  way 

To  the  left  of  yon  tree  ; 
But — a — look  h'yur,  say  ! 
Won't  you  come  up  to  tea  ? 
No  ?   Well  then,  the  next  time  you're  passin' ; 
and  ask  after  Dow, — and  thet's  me. 


MOUNTAINS. 


MRS.    MARY   HOWITT. 


[INHERE  is  a  charm  connected  with  mountains,  so  powerful  that  the 
merest  mention  of  them,  the  merest  sketch  of  their  magnificent 
features,  kindles  the  imagination,  and  carries  the  spirit  at  once  into 
the  bosom  of  their  enchanted  regions.  How  the  mind  is  filled 
with  their  vast  solitude  !  how  the  inward  e3'e  is  fixed  on  their  silent, 
their  sublime,  their  everlasting  peaks  !  How  our  heart  bounds  to  the 
music  of  their  solitary  cries,  to  the  tinkle  of  the  gushing  rills,  to  the  sound 
of  their  cataracts !  How  inspiriting  are  the  odors  that  breathe  from  the 
upland  turf,  from  the  rock-hung  flower,  from  the  hoary  and  solemn  pine ! 
how  beautiful  are  those  lights  and  shadows  thrown  abroad,  and  that  fine, 
transparent  haze  which  is  diffused  over  the  valleys  and  lower  slopes,  as 
over  a  vast,  inimitable  picture! 

At  the  autumnal  season,  the  ascents  of  our  own  mountains  are  most 
vracticable.     The  heat  of  summer  has  dried  up  the  moisture  with  which 


128 


MOUNTAINS. 


winter  rains  saturate  the  spongy  turf  of  the  hollows ;  and  the  atmosphere, 
clear  and   settled,  admits  of    the    most   extensive    prospects.     Whoever 

has  not  ascended  our 
mountains  knows 
little  of  the  beauties 
of  this  beautiful  is- 
land. Whoever  has 
not  climbed  their 
long  and  heathy  as- 
cents, and  seen  the 
trembhng  mountain 
flowers,  the  glowing 
moss,  the  richly 
tinted  lichens  at  his 
feet ;  and  scented 
the  fresh  aroma  of 
the  uncultivated  sod, 
and  of  the  spicy 
shrubs ;  and  heard 
the  bleat  of  the  flock 
across  their  solitary 
expanses,  and  the 
wild  cry  of  the  moun- 
tain plover,  the  ra- 
ven, or  the  eagle; 
and  seen  the  rich 
and  russet  hues  of 
distant    slopes    and 

.-.LI'::.' I.    i-J.Ai.-  .  1       T    ■  1 

eminences,  the  livid 
gashes  of  ravines  and  precipices,  the  white  glittering  line  of  falling  waters, 
and  the  cloud  tumultuously  whirling  round  the  lofty  summit;  and  then 
stood  panting  on  that  summit,  and  beheld  the  clouds  alternately  gather  and 
break  over  a  thousand  giant  peaks  and  ridges  of  every  varied  hue,  but  all 
silent  as  images  of  eternity  ;  and  cast  his  gaze  over  lakes  and  forests,  and 
smoking  towns,  and  wide  lands  to  the  very  ocean,  in  all  their  gleaming 
and  reposing  beauty,  knows  nothing  of  tlic  treasures  of  pictorial  wealth 
wliich  liis  own  country  possesses. 

But  when  wo  let  loose  the  imagination  from  r-ven  these  splendid 
Bceno.s,  and  give  it  free  charter  to  i-aiige  through  tli(i  far  more  glorious 
ridges  of  continental  mountains,  through  Alps,  Apennines,  or  Andes,  how 


OLD  TIMES  AND  NEW. 


429 


is  it  possessed  and  absorbed  by  all  the  awful  magnificence  of  their  scenery 
and  character ! 


OLD  TIMES  AND  NEW. 


A.    C.    SPOONEE. 


WAS  in  my  easy  chair  at  home, 
'^.      About  a  week  ago, 

I  sat  and  puffed  my  light  cigar, 
As  usual,  you  must  know. 

I  mused  upon  the  Pilgrim  flock, 
Whose  luck  it  was  to  land 

Upon  almost  the  only  Rock 
Among  the  Plymouth  sand. 

In  my  mind's  eye,  I  saw  them  leave 

Their  weather  beaten  bark — 
Before  them  spread  the  wintry  wilds, 

Behind,  rolled  Ocean  dark. 

Alone  that  noble  handful  stood 
While  savage  foes  lurked  nigh — 

Their  creed  and  watchword,    "  Trust  in  God, 
And  keep  your  powder  dry." 

Imagination's  pencil  then 

That  first  stern  winter  painted. 
When  more  than  half  their  number  died 

And  stoutest  spirits  fainted. 

A  tear  unbidden  filled  one  eye. 

My  smoke  had  filled  the  other. 
One  sees  strange  sights  at  such  a  time, 

Which  quite  the  senses  bother. 

I  knew  I  was  alone — but  lo  ! 

(Let  him  who  dares,  deride  me  ;) 
I  looked,  and  drawing  up  a  chair, 

Down  sat  a  man  beside  me 

His  dress  was  ancient,  and  his  air 
Was  somewhat  strange  and  foreign  ; 

He  civilly  returned  my  stare. 

And  said,  "  I'm  Richard  Warren. 

"  You'll  find  my  name  among  the  list 

Of  hero,  sage  and  martyr, 
Who,  in  the  Mayflower's  cabin,  signed 

The  first  New  England  charter. 
29 


"  I  could  some  curious  facts  impart — 
Perhaps,  some  wise  suggestions — 

But  then  I'm  bent  on  seeing  sighld, 
And  running  o'er  with  questions." 

"  Ask  on,"  said  I ;  "  I'll  do  my  be«t 

To  give  you  information, 
Whether  of  private  men  you  ask, 

Or  our  renowned  nation." 

Says  he,  "  First  tell  me  what  is  that 

In  your  compartment  narrow, 
Which  seems  to  dry  my  eye-balls  up, 

And  scorch  my  very  marrow." 

His  finger  pointed  to  the  grate. 

Said  I,  "  That's  Lehigh  coal. 
Dug  from  the  earth," — he  shook  his  head — 

"  It  is,  upon  my  soul !" 

I  then  took  up  a  bit  of  stick, 

One  end  as  black  as  night, 
And  rubbed  it  quick  across  the  hearth, 

When,  lo  !  a  sudden  light ! 

My  guest  drew  back,  uprolled  his  eyee, 
And  strove  his  breath  to  catch ; 

"  What  necromancy's  that?"  he  cried, 
Quoth  T,  "  A  friction  match." 

Upon  a  pipe  just  overhead 

I  turned  a  little  screw. 
When  forth,  with  instantaneous  flash, 

Three  streams  of  lightning  flew. 

fiprose  my  guest:  "Now  Heaven  me  sava," 

Aloud  he  shouted  ;  then, 
'=  Is  that  hell-fire  ?"  "  'Tis  gas,''  said  I, 

"  We  call  it  hydrogen." 

Then  forth  into  the  fields  we  strolled ; 

A  train  came  thundering  by, 
Drawn  by  the  snorting  iron  steed 

Swifter  than  eagles  fly. 


430 


BATTLE  SONG  OF  GUSTAVUS  ADOLPHUS. 


Rumfcied  the  wheels,  the  whistle  shrieked, 

Far  streamed  the  smoky  cloud  ; 
Echoed  the  hills,  the  valleys  shook, 

The  flying  forest  bowed. 

Down  on  his  knees,  with  hand  upraised 

In  worship,  Warren  fell; 
'  Great  is  the  Lord  our  God,"  cried  he; 

"  He  doeth  all  things  well. 

I've  seen  his  chariots  of  fire, 

The  horsemen,  too,  thereof; 
Oh  may  I  ne'er  forget  his  ire. 

Nor  at  his  threatenings  scoff." 

"  Rise  up,  my  friend,  rise  up,"  said  I, 

"  Your  terrors  all  are  vain. 
That  was  no  chariot  of  the  sky, 

'Twas  the  New  York  mail  train." 

We  stood  within  a  chamber  small — 

Men  came  the  news  to  know 
From  Worcester,  Springfield  and  New  York, 

Texas  and  Mexico. 

It  came — it  went — silent  and  sure — 
He  stared,  smiled,  burst  out  laughing; 

"What  witchcraft's  that?"    "It's  what  we 
call 
Magnetic  telegraphing." 

Once  more  we  stepped  into  the  street ; 

Said  Warren,  "  What  is  that 
Which  moves  along  across  the  way 

As  smoothly  as  a  cat  ? 


"  I  mean  the  thing  upon  two  legs-. 

With  feathers  on  its  head — 
A  monstrous  hump  below  its  waist 

Large  as  a  feather-bed. 

"  It  has  the  gift  of  speech,  I  hear; 

But  sure  it  can't  be  human  !" 
"  My  amiable  friend,"  said  I, 

"  That's  what  we  call  a  woman !' 

"A  woman!  no — it  cannot  be," 
Sighed  he,  with  voice  that  faltered 

■'  I  loved  the  women  in  my  day, 
But  oh  !  they're  strangely  altered." 

I  showed  him  then  a  new  machine 
For  turning  eggs  to  chickens — 

A  labor-saving  hennery. 

That  beats  the  very  dickens ! 

Thereat  he  strongly  grasped  my  hand, 

And  said,  "  'Tis  plain  to  see 
This  world  is  so  transmogrified 

'Twill  never  do  for  me. 

"Your  telegraphs,  your  railroad-trains, 
Your  gas-lights,  friction  matches. 

Your  hump-backed  women,  rocks  for  coal. 
Your  thing  which  chickens  hatches, 

"  Have  turned  the  earth  so  upside  down, 

No  peace  is  left  within  it ;" 
Then  whirling  round  upon  his  heel, 

He  vanished  in  a  minute. 


BATTLE  ;^0^G  OF  GUSTA  VU^  ADuLPHUS. 


.  >rffcr>  . 


MICHAEL    ALTENBURG. 


;i,AR  not,  0  little  flock  !  the  foe 
Who  madly  seeks  your  overthrow, 
(  .; }  Dreafl  not  his  rage  and  power  ; 

(^^       Wliiit   though   your   foiirage   somc- 
T  times  faints? 

4*  II is    seeming    triumph    o'er    God's 

J  saint-H 

Lasts  but  a  little  hour. 


Bo  of  gooil  cheer ;  j'our  cause  belongs 
To  Ilim  who  can  avenge  your  wrongs, 

Leave  it  io  Him,  our  Lord. 
Though  hidden  now  from  all  our  eyes 
Ho  sees  the  Gideon  who  shall  rise 

To  save  u.x,  and  His  word 

Ah  true  as  God's  own  word  is  true, 


OLD. 


431 


Not  earth  or  hell  with  all  their  crew 
Against  us  shall  prevail. 

A  jest  and  by-word  are  they  grown  ; 
Gcd  is  with  us,  we  are  his  own, 
Our  victory  cannot  fail. 


Amen,  Lord  Jesus  ;  grant  our  prayer  ! 
Great  Captain,  now  thine  arm  make  bare ; 

Fight  for  us  once  again  ! 
So  shall  the  saints  and  martyrs  raise 
A  mighty  chorus  to  thy  praise, 

World  without  end  !     Amen. 


^ 

^^^^^0-^ 

^ 

^^ 

" 

OLD. 


RALPH    HOYT. 


V  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone,  i 

Sat  a  hoary  pilgrim  sadly  musing ;  ; 
Oft    I    marked    him    sitting    there 

alone,  j 
All  the  landscape  like  a  page  pe- 

rusing :  | 

Poor,  unknown,  i 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  sti;nc.  | 


Buckled  knee  and  shoe,  and  broad-bnmme<l 
hat. 
Coat  as  ancient  as  the  form  'twas  folding  ; 
Silver  buttons,  queue,  and  crimped  cravat, 
Oaken  staff,  his  feeble  hand  upholding; 
There  he  sat ! 
Buckled  knee  and  shoe,  and  broad-brimmed 
hat. 


432 


OLD. 


Seemed  it  pitiful  he  should  sit  there, 
No  one  sympathizing,  no  one  heeding. 

None  to  love  him  for  his  thin,  gray  hair, 
And  the  furrows  all  so  mutely  pleading 
Age  and  care : 

Seemed  it  pitiful  he  should  sit  there. 

It  was  Summer,  and  we  went  to  school, 
Dapper  country  lads,  and  little  maidens, 

Taught  the  motto  of  the  "  dunce's  stool," 
Its  grave  import  still  my  fancy  ladens : 
"  Here's  a  fool !  " 

It  was  Summer  and  we  went  to  school. 

When  the  stranger  seemed  to  mark  our  play 
Some  of  us  were  joyous,  some  sad-hearted. 

I  remember  well,  too  well,  that  day ! 
Oftentimes  the  tears  unbidden  started. 
Would  not  stay, 

When  the  stranger  seemed  to  mark  our  jday. 

One  sweet  spirit  broke  the  silent  spell : 
Ah !  to  me  her  name  was  always  Heaven! 

She  besought  him  all  his  grief  to  tell : 
(I  was  then  thirteen  and  she  eleven), 
Isabel ! 

One  sweet  spirit  broke  the  silent  spell. 

"  Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "  I  am  old  ; 

Earthly  hope  no  longer  hath  a  morrow  ; 
Yet,  why  I  sit  here  thou  shalt  be  told." 

Then  his  eye  betrayed  a  pearl  of  sorrow ; 
Down  it  rolled  ! 
"  Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "  I  am  old." 

"  I  have  tottered  here  to  look  once  more 
On  the  pleasant  scene  where  I  delighted 

In  the  careless,  happy  days  of  yore. 

Ere  the  garden  of  my  heart  was  blighted 
To  the  core : 

I  have  tottered  here  once  more. 

"  All  the  picture  now  to  me  how  dear ; 

E'en  this  grave  old  rock,  where  I  am  seated, 
;8  a  jewel  worth  my  journey  here  ; 

Ah,  that  Huch  a  scene  must  be  completed 
With  a  tear ' 
All  tlie  picture  now  to  m''  how  dear  ! 

"  Old  Blono  ■»cl>i>ol-hou8o ! — it  is  still  the  same : 
There'*  Uie  v  ;ry  step  I  ho  oft  mounted  ; 


There's  the  window  creaking  in  its  frame, 
And  the  notches  that  I  cut  and  counted 
For  the  game : 
Old  stone  school-house ! — it  is  still  the  same 

"  In  the  cottage,  yonder,  I  was  born  ; 

Long  my  happy  home  that  humble  dwelling 
There  the  fields  of  clover,  wheat,  and  corn, 
There  the  spring,  with  limpid  nectar  swell- 
ing: 

Ah,  forlorn ! 
In  the  cottage,  yonder,  I  was  born. 

"  Those  two  gateway  sycamores  j'ou  S6« 
Then  were  planted  just  so  far  asunder. 

That  long  well-pole  from  the  path  to  free, 
And  the  wagon  to  pass  safely  under  : 
Ninety-three ! 

Those  two  gateway  sycamores  you  see. 

"There's  the  orchard  where  we  used  to  climb 
When  my  mates  and  I  were  boys  together, 
Thinking  nothing  of  the  flight  of  time, 
Fearing    naught    but   work    and    rainy 
weather  : 

Past  its  prime  1 
There's  the  orchard  where  we  used  to  climb. 

"  There's  the   rude,  three-cornered  chestnut 
rails. 
Round  the  pasture  where  the  flocks  were 
grazing, 
Where,  so  sly,  I  used  to  watch  for  quails — 
In  the  crops  of  buckwheat  we  were  raising : 
Traps  and  trails  ! 
There's  the  rude  three-cornered  chestnut  rails. 

"There's  the   mill  that  ground  our   yellow 
grain  : 
Pond,  and  river  still  serenely  flowing ; 
Cot,  there  resting  in  the  shaded  lane. 

Whore  the  lily  of  my  heart  was  blowing: 
Mary  Jane ! 
There's  the  mill  that  ground  our  yellow  grain. 

"  There's  the  gate  on  wliich  I  used  to  swing. 
Brook,  and  bridge,  and  barn,  and  old  red 
stable. 
But  alas  !   no  more  tlw;  morn  shall  bring 
That  dear  grnuj)  around  my  father's  table. 
Taken  wing  ' 
There's  the  gate  on  whidi  I  used  to  swing. 


THE  DOMAIN  OF  ARNHEIM. 


433 


"  I  am  fleeing — all  I  loved  have  fled, 
li  on  green  meadow  was  our  place  for  play- 
ing. 
That  old  tree  can  tell  of  sweet  things  said 
When  around  it  Jane  and  I  were  straying; 
She  is  dead ! 
I  am  fleeing — all  I  loved  have  fled. 

"  Yon  white  spire,  a  pencil  on  the  sky, 
Tracing  silently  life's  changeful  story. 

So  familiar  to  my  dim  old  eye. 

Points  to  seven  that  are  now  in  glory 
There  on  high : 

Yon  white  spire,  a  pencil  on  the  sky ! 

"  Oft  the  aisle  of  that  old  church  we  trod. 
Guided  thither  by  an  angel  mother ; 

Now  she  sleeps  beneath  its  sacred  sod  ; 
Sire  and  sisters,  and  my  little  brother. 
Gone  to  God ! 

Oft  the  aisle  of  that  old  church  we  trod. 

*  There  I  heard  of  Wisdom's  pleasant  ways : 
Bless  the  holy  lesson ! — but  ah,  never 

Shall  I  hear  again  those  songs  of  praise — 
Those  sweet  voices — silent  now  forever ; 
Peaceful  days  ! 

There  I  heard  of  Wisdom's  pleasant  ways. 


"  There  my  Mary  blessed  me  with  her  hand 
When   our   souls   drank    in   the     nuptial 
blessing. 
Ere  she  hastened  to  the  spirit-land, 

Yonder  turf  her  gentle  bosom  pressing ; 
Broken  band ! 
There  my  Mary  blessed  me  with  her  hand. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  that  grave  once  more, 
And  the  sacred  place  where  we  delighted, 

Where  we  worshipped,  in  the  days  of  yore. 
Ere  the  garden  of  my  heart  was  blighted 
To  the  core ; 

I  have  come  to  see  that  grave  once  more. 

"  Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "  I  am  old; 

Earthly  hope  no  longer  hath  a  morrow ; 
Now,  why  I  sit  here  thou  hast  been  told." 

In  his  eye  another  pearl  of  sorrow: 
Down  it  rolled, 
"Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "  I  am  old." 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone, 
Sat  the  hoary  pilgrim,  sadly  musing  ; 

Still  I  marked  him  sitting  there  alone. 
All  the  landscape,  like  a  page,  perusing ; 
Poor,  unknown ! 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone. 


THE  DOMAIN  OF  ARNHEIM. 


EDGAR   A.    POE. 


I^I,9||HE  usual  approach  to  Arnheim  was  by  the  river.  The  visitor  left 
the  city  early  in  the  morning.  During  the  forenoon  he  passed 
between  shores  of  a  tranquil  and  domestic  beauty,  on  which  grazed 
innumerable  sheep,  their  white  fleeces  spotting  the  vivid  green  of 
rolling  meadows.  By  degrees  the  idea  of  cultivation  subsided  into 
that  of  merely  pastoral  care.  This  slowly  became  merged  in  a 
sense  of  retirement — this  again  in  a  consciousness  of  solitude.  As  the 
evening  approached,  the  channel  grew  more  narrow ;  the  banks  more  and 
more  precipitous ;  and  these  latter  were  clothed  in  richness,  more  profuse, 
and  more  sombre  foliage.  The  water  increased  in  transparency.  The 
stream  took  a  thousand  turns,  so  that  at  no  moment  could  its  gleaming 
surface  be  seen  for  a  greater  distance  than  a  furlong.    At  every  instant  the 


434 


THE  DOMAIN  01'"  ARNllKiM. 


vessel  seemed  imprisoned  within  an  enchanted  circle,  having  insuperable 
and  impenetrable  walls  of  foliage,  a  roof  of  ultra-marine  satin,  and  no  tlooi 


APl'UOACIl    TO    AUNHKIM. 


— the  kofd  balaiiciiig  it^<;lf  with  admirable  nicfty  on  that  of  a  phantom 
bark  which,  by  some  accident  liaving  been  turned  upwido  down,  floated  in 
constant  company  with  the  substantial  one,  for  tlie  purjKjsc  of  suslainmg  it. 


THE  DOMAIN  OF  ARNHEIM.  435 


The  channel  now  became  a  gorge — although  the  term  is  somewhat  in- 
applicable, and  I  employ  it  merely  because  the  language  has  no  word  which 
better  represents  the  most  striking — not  the  most  distinctive — feature  oi 
the  scene.  The  character  of  gorge  was  maintained  only  in  the  heiglil 
and  parallelism  of  the  shores ;  it  was  altogether  lost  in  their  other  traits 
Tlie  walls  of  the  ravine  through  which  the  water  still  tranquilly  flov/ed. 
arose  to  such  an  elevation,  and  were  so  precipitous  as  iu  a  great  measure,  to 
shut  out  the  light  of  day ;  while  the  long  plume-like  moss  which  depended 
densely  from  the  intertwining  shrubberies  overhead,  gave  the  whole  chasm 
an  air  of  funereal  gloom.  The  windings  became  more  frequent  and  more 
intricate,  and  seemed  often  as  if  returning  in  upon  themselves,  so  that 
the  voyager  had  long  lost  all  idea  of  direction. 

Having  threaded  the  mazes  of  this  channel  for  some  hours,  the  gloom 
deepening  every  moment,  a  sharp  and  unexpected  turn  of  the  vessel  brought 
it  suddenly,  as  if  dropped  from  heaven,  into  a  circular  basin  of  very  con- 
siderable extent  when  compared  with  the  width  of  the  gorge  ....  The 
visitor,  shooting  suddenly  into  this  bay  from  out  of  the  gloom  of  the  ravine, 
is  delighted,  but  astounded  by  the  full  orb  of  the  declining  sun,  which  he 
had  supposed  to  be  already  far  below  the  horizon,  but  which  now  confrontb 
him,  and  forms  the  sole  termination  of  an  otherwise  limitless  vista  seen 
through  another  chasm-like  rift  in  the  hills. 

But  here  the  voyager  quits  the  vessel  which  has  borne  him  so  far, 
and  descends  into  a  light  canoe  of  ivory,  stained  with  arabesque  devices 
in  vivid  scarlet,  both  within  and  w^ithout.  The  poop  and  beak  of  this  boat 
arise  high  above  the  water,  with  sharp  points,  so  that  the  general  form  is 
that  of  an  irregular  crescent.  It  lies  on  the  surface  of  the  bay  with  the 
proud  grace  of  the  swan.  On  its  ermined  floor  reposes  a  single  feathery 
paddle  of  satin-wood ;  but  no  oarsman  or  attendant  is  to  be  seen.  The 
guest  is  bidden  to  be  of  good  cheer — that  the  Fates  will  take  care  of  him. 
The  larger  vessel  disappears,  and  he  is  left  alone  in  the  canoe,  which  lies 
apparently  motionless  in  the  middle  of  the  lake.  While  he  considers  what 
course  to  pursue,  however,  he  becomes  aware  of  a  gentle  movement  in  the 
fairy  bark.  It  slowly  surges  itself  around  until  its  prow  points  toward 
the  sun.  It  advances  with  a  gentle  but  gradually  accelerated  velocity, 
while  the  slight  ripples  it  creates  break  about  the  ivory  sides  in  divine.<t 
melody,  and  seem  to  offer  the  only  possible  explanation  of  the  soothing 
yet  melancholy  music  for  whose  unseen  origin  the  bewildered  voyager 
looks  around  him  in  vaiu 

The  canoe  steadily  proceeds,  and  the  rocky  gate  of  the  vista  is  ap- 
proached, so  that  its  depths  can  be  more  distinctly  seen  ....    On  drawing' 


436  THE  BUGLE. 


nearer  to  this,  however,  its  chasm-Uke  appearance  vanishes;  a  new  outlet 
from  the  bay  is  discovered  to  the  left — in  which  direction  the  wall  is  also 
seen  to  sweep,  still  following  the  general  course  of  the  stream.  Down  this 
new  opening  the  eye  cannot  penetrate  very  far;  for  the  stream,  accompanied 
by  the  wall,  still  bends  to  the  left,  until  both  are  swallowed  up. 

Floating  gently  onward,  but  with  a  velocity  slightly  augmented,  the 
voyager,  after  many  short  turns,  finds  his  progress  apparently  barred  by  a 
gigantic  gate  or  rather  door  of  burnished  gold,  elaborately  covereii  and  fret- 
ted, and  reflecting  the  direct  rays  of  the  now  fast-sinking  sun  with  an  ef- 
fulgence that  seems  to  wreathe  the  whole  surrounding  forest  in  flames.  This 
ga.te  is  inserted  in  the  lofty  wall ;  which  here  appears  to  cross  the  river  at 
right  angles.  In  a  few  moments,  however,  it  is  seen  that  the  main  body  of 
the  water  still  sweeps  in  a  gentle  and  extensive  curve  to  the  left,  the  wall  fol- 
lowing it  as  before,  while  a  stream  of  considerable  volume,  diverging  from 
the  principal  one,  makes  its  way,  with  a  slight  ripple,  under  the  door,  and 
is  thus  hidden  from  sight.  The  canoe  falls  into  the  lesser  channel  and 
approaches  the  gate.  Its  ponderous  wings  are  slowly  and  musically 
expanded.  The  boat  glides  between  them,  and  commences  a  rapid  descent 
into  a  vast  amphitheatre,  entirely  begirt  with  purple  mountains;  whose 
bases  are  laved  by  a  gleaming  river  throughout  the  whole  extent  of  their 
circuit.  Meantime  the  whole  Paradise  cf  Arnheim  bursts  upon  the  view. 
There  is  a  gush  of  entrancing  melody  ;  there  is  an  oppressive  sense  of 
strange  sweet  odor ; — there  is  a  dream-like  intermingling  to  the  eye  of  tall 
slender  Eastern  trees — bosky  shubberies — flocks  of  golden  and  crimson 
birds — lily-fringed  lakes — meadows  of  violets,  tulips,  poppies,  hyacinths 
and  tuberoses — long  iiitertangled  lines  of  silver  streamlets — and,  upspring- 
ing  confusedly  from  amid  all,  a  mass  of  semi-Gothic,  semi-Saraccnic  archi- 
tecture, sustaining  itself  as  if  by  miracle  in  mid  air;  glittering  in  the  red 
sunlight  with  a  hundred  orioles,  minarets,  and  pinnacles;  and  secMuing 
the  phantom  handiwork,  conjointly,  of  the  Sylphs,  of  the  Fairies,  ot"  the 
Genii,  and  of  the  Gnomes. 


THE  BUGLE. 


TENNYSON. 


HE  Hplnndor  falls  on  caHtlo  walls  |  T'.low,  bnKlc,  Mow,   sfl  (Ik;  wiM   ochocs  fly- 

And  Hnowy  nuiiiinitH  old  in  story:  I  inj^, 

Tlio  lon^ light HliakcH  iicroHHlh.r  liikoR,      blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory.  '  dying. 


THE  CLOUD. 


437 


0  hark  !  0  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
0  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar. 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 


0  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  f^ky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river-. 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  .set  the  wild  echoes  flying 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dving, 
dying. 


THE  CLOUD. 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


BRING   fresh   showers  for  the  thirsty 
flowers. 
From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when 

J  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are'  shaken  the  dews 
that  waken 
The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast. 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail. 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under. 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 
And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white. 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
While  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers, 

Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits  ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder ; 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits. 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,   under   mountain   and 
stream. 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains  ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue 
smile. 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 


The    sanguine    surprise,    with    his    meteor 
eyes. 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 
As,  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle,  alit,  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit 
sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  love. 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall, 

From  the  depths  of  heaven  above. 
With    wings    folded    I    rest    on   mine 
nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 


airy 


That  orb^d  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin 
roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer  : 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  wliirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen   the   rent  in   my  wind-built 
tent. 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  skv  fallen   through  me  on 
high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 


438 


I'M  GROWING  OLD. 


I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and 
swim. 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam  proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch,  through  which  I  march, 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to 
my  chair. 

Is  the  million  colored  bow  ; 
The  sphere-fire  above,  its  soft  colors  move. 

Whilst  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 


I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  ,• 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and 
shores  ; . 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
But  after  a  raiu,  when,  with  never  a  stain. 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds   and    sunbeams,  with  their 
convex  gleams. 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air — 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost 
from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  build  it  again. 


I'M  GROWING  OLD. 


JOHN   G.    SAXE. 


•;Y  days  pass  pleasantly  away. 

My  nights  are  blest  with  sweet- 
est sleep ; 
'I  feel  no  symptoms  of  decay, 

I  have  no  cause  to  mourn  or  weep  ; 
4  My  foes  are  impotent  and  shy, 
J       My  friends  are  neither  false  nor  cold  ; 
And  yet  of  late,  I  often  .sigh  : 

"  I'm  growing  old." 

My  growing  talk  of  olden  times, 
My  growing  thirst  for  early  news, 

My  growing  apathy  to  rhymes, 
My  growing  love  of  easy  shoes. 

My  growing  hate  of  crowds  and  noise, 
My  growing  fear  of  taking  cold  ; 

All  whiHpor  in  the  plainest  voice, 

I'm  growing  old. 

I'm  growing  fonder  of  rny  staff, 
I'rn  growing  dimmer  in  the  eyes, 

I'm  growing  fainter  in  my  laugh, 
I'm  growing  deeper  in  iny  sighs, 

I'm  growing  careless  of  my  dress, 
I'm  growing  frugal  of  my  gold, 

I'm  growing  wise,  I'm  growing — yes, 
I'm  growing  old. 


I  see  it  in  my  changing  taste, 
I  see  it  in  my  changing  hair, 

I  see  it  in  my  growing  waist, 
I  see  it  in  my  growing  heir  ; 

A  thousand  signs  proclaim  the  truth. 
As  plain  as  ever  truth  was  told. 

That  even  in  my  vaunted  3'outh, 

I'm  growing  old. 

Ah  me  !  my  very  laurels  breathe 
The  tale  in  my  reluctant  ears, 

And  every  boon  the  hours  bequeathe 
But  makes  me  debtor  to  the  Years. 

E'en  Flattery's  honeyed  words  declare 
The  secret  slie  would  fain  withhold. 

And  tell  me,  in  "  How  young  you  are," 
I'm  growing  old. 

Thanks  for  the  years  whose  rapiil  tliglit 
My  sombre  muse  too  sadly  sings  ! 

Thanks  for  the  gli^anis  of  golden  light 
That  tint  the  tlarkness  of  their  wings : 

Tlie  light  that  beams  from  out  tlie  sky. 
Those  heavenly  mansions  to  unfold 

Where  all  are  blest,  and  none  may  sigh 
"  I'm  growing  old." 


"  My  days  pass  pleasantly  away 

My  nights  are  blessed  with  sweetest  sleep; 

I  feel  no  symptoms  of  decay, 

ave  no  cause  to  monrn  or  weep; 


My  foes  are  impotent  and  shy, 

My  friends  are  neither  false  nor  cold; 

And  yet,  of  late,  I  often  sigh: 

'  I'm  growing  old.'  " 


THE  STORMY  P^.TRiiL. 


439 


THE  STORMY  PETREL. 


BARRY    CORNWALL. 


thousand  miles  from  land  are  we, 
Tossing  about  on  the  stormy  sea, 
From   billow   to    bounding    billow 

cast, 
Like   fleecy   snow    on    the    stormy 

blast. 
The  sails  are  scattered  abroad  like 
weeds ; 
The  strong  masts  shake  like  quivering  reeds; 
The  mighty  cables  and  iron  chains, 
The  hull,    which   all   earthh'   strength    dis- 
dains. 
They  strain  and  they  crack  ;  and  hearts  like 

stone 
Their  natural,  hard,  proud  strength   disown. 

Up  and  down  !  up  and  down  ! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow's 

crown, 
And  ami-lst  the  flashing  and  feathery  foam 
The  stormy  petrel  finds  a  home, 


A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be 

For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 

To  warm  her  young  and  to  teach  them  to 

spring 
At   once   o'er  the   waves    on    their   stoi.-ny 

wing. 

O'er  the  deep !  o'er  the  deep  ! 

WTiere   the   whale  and   the  .«hark   and  ih.-> 

sword-fish  sleep 
Outflying  the  b]a«t  and  the  driving  rain, 
The  petrel  telleth  her  tale — in  vain ; 
For  the  mariner  curseth  the  warning  buJ 
Who  bringeth  him  news  of  the   'i\r>i\\,  wi\ 

heard  I 
Ah  !  thus  doos  the  prophet  of  good  o:  ii. 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  servcth  still , 
Yet  he^e'er  falters, — so,  petrel,  spring 
Once  more  o'er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy  wing 


440 


IDEAS  THE  LIFE  OF  A  PEOPLE. 


SONG  OF  THE  STORMY  PETREL. 


le  lark  sings  for  joy  in  her  own  loved 

land, 
In  the  furrowed  field,  by  the  breezes 

fanned ; 
And  so  revel  we 
In  the  furrowed  sea, 
As  joyous  and  glad  as  the  lark  can  be 

On  the  placid  breast  of  the  inland  lake, 
The  wild  duck  delights  her  pastime  to  take  ; 

But  the  petrel  braves 

The  wild  ocean  waves, 
His  wing  in  the  foaming  billow  he  laves. 


The  halcyon  loves  in  the  noontide  beam 
To  follow  his  sport  on  the  tranquil  stream, 

He  fishes  at  ease 

In  the  summer  breeze, 
But  we  go  angling  in  stormiest  seas. 

No  song  note  have  we  but  a  piping  cry. 
That  blends  with  the  storm  when  the  wind  is 
high. 

When  the  land  birds  wail 

We  sport  in  the  gale. 
And  merrilv  over  the  ocean  we  sail. 


IDEAS  THE  LIFE  OF  A  PEOPLE. 


GEORGE    W.    CURTIS. 


fPJ^KHE  leaders  of  our  Revolution  were  men  of  whom  the  simple  truth  is 
the  highest  praise.     Of  every  condition  in  life,  they  were  singularly 
sagacious,  sober,  and  thoughtful.     Lord  Chatham  spoke  only  the 
I         truth  when  he  said  to  Franklin,  of  the  men  who  composed  the  first 
f        colonial  Congress:  "The  Congress  is  the  most  honorable  assembly 
1         of  statesmen  since  those  of  the  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans  in  the 
most  virtuous   times."     Given   to   grave    reflection,    they    were   neither 
dreamers  nor  visionaries,  and  they  were  much  too  earnest  to  bo  rhetori- 
cians.    It  is  a  curious  fact,  that  they  were  generally  men  of  so  calm  a 
temper  that  they  lived  to  extreme  age.     With  the  exception  of  Patrick 
Henry  and  Samuel  Adarn.s,  they  were  most  of  them  profound  scholars,  and 
studied  the  historv  of  mankind  that  thoy  might  know  men.     They  were  so 
familiar  with  the  lives  and  thoughts  of  the  wisest  and  best  minds  of  tin; 
past  that  a  classic  aroma  hangs  about  their  writings  and  their  speech;  and 
they  were  profoundly  convinced  of  what  statesmen  always  know,  and  the 
adroitest  mere  politicians  never  perceive, — that  ideas  are  the  life  of  a 
people ;  that  the  conscience,  not  the  pocket,  is  the  real  citadel  of  a  nation ; 
and  that  when  you  have  debauchnd  and  demoralized  that  conscience   by 
teaching  that  there  are  no  natural  rights,  and  that  therefore  there  is  no 
moral  right  or  wrong  in  political  action,  you  have  poisoned  the  wells  and 
rotted  the  crops  in  the  ground. 


LITTLE  AND  GREAT.  44X 


The  three  greatest  living  statesmen  of  England  knew  this  also. 
Edmund  Burke  knew  it,  and  Charles  James  Fox,  and  WilHam  Pitt,  Earl 
of  Chatham.  But  they  did  not  speak  for  the  King,  or  Parliament,  or  the 
English  nation.  Lord  Gower  spoke  for  them  when  he  said  in  Parliament: 
"Let  the  Americans  talk  about  their  natural  and  divine  rights;  their 
rights  as  men  and  citizens ;  their  rights  from  God  and  nature !  I  am  for 
enforcing  these  measures."  My  lord  was  contemptuous,  and  the  King  hired 
the  Hessians,  but  the  truth  remained  true.  The  Fathers  saw  the  scarlet 
soldiers  swarming  over  the  sea,  but  more  steadily  they  saw  that  national 
progress  had  been  secure  only  in  the  degree  that  the  political  system  had 
conformed  to  natural  justice.  They  knew  the  coming  wreck  of  property 
and  trade,  but  they  knew  more  surely  that  Rome  was  never  so  rich  as  when 
she  was  dying,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Netherlands,  never  so  powerful 
as  when  they  were  poorest.  Farther  away  they  read  the  names  of  Assyria, 
Greece,  Egypt.  They  had  art,  opulence,  splendor.  Corn  enough  grew  in 
the  valley  of  the  Nile.  The  Syrian  sword  was  as  sharp  as  any.  They 
were  merchant  princes,  and  the  clouds  in  the  sky  were  rivaled  by  their  sails 
upon  the  sea.     They  were  soldiers,  and  their  frown  frightened  the  world. 

"Soul,  take  thine  ease,"  those  empires  said,  languid  with  excess  of 
luxury  and  life.  Yes:  but  you  remember  the  king  who  had  built  his 
grandest  palace,  and  was  to  occupy  it  upon  the  morrow;  but  when  the 
morrow  came  the  palace  was  a  pile  of  ruins.  "  Woe  is  me !"  cried  the 
King,  "who  is  guilty  of  this  crime?"  "There  is  no  crime,"  replied  th( 
sage  at  his  side ;  "  but  the  mortar  was  made  of  sand  and  water  only,  and 
the  builders  forgot  to  put  in  the  lime."  So  fell  the  old  empires,  because  the 
governors  forgot  to  put  justice  into  their  governments. 


LITTLE  AND  GREAT 


CHARLES    MACKAY. 

^   TRAVELER    through    a    dusty  \  The  dormouse  loved  its  dangling  twigs, 

ro^tl.  The  birds  sweet  music  bore  ; 

Strewed  acorns  on  the  lea ;  jj  ^^qq^  a  glory  in  its  place, 

And  one  took  root  and  sprouted  up,  ^  blessing  evermore. 

And  grew  into  a  tree. 
Love  sought  its  shade  at  evening 

j-jjjg  1  A  little  spring  had  lost  its  way 

To  breathe  his  earlv  vows  ;  i       ^^id  the  grass  and  fern  ; 

And  age  was  pleased,  in  heats  of  noon,  A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well. 

To  bask  beneath  its  boughs.  |       ^^^^ere  weary  men  might  turn. 


i42 


LITTLE  AND  GREAT. 


He  waUed  it  up,  and  hung  with  care 

A  ladle  at  the  brink ; 
He  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did, 

But  judged  that  Toil  might  drink. 


It  shone  upon  a  genial  mind, 
And  lo !  its  light  became 

A  lamp  of  life,  a  beacon  ray. 
A  monitory  flame 


'^^ 


i.A 


He  paflfled  again — <tn'l  ii»;   tin;  well, 

By  flurnmors  never  driotl, 
Had  cooled  ten  thousand  parching  tongues, 

And  saved  a  life  beside. 

A  dreamer  dropjtcd  a  random  thought; 

'Twas  old — and  yet  'twa."*  now. 
A  simple  fancy  of  the  ])rain, 

But  Btrong  in  being  true. 


The  thouglit  was  small — its  issue  great 

A  watch-iirc  on  the  hill, 
It  sheds  it«  radiance  far  adown, 

And  cheers  tlie  valley  still. 

A  nameless  man,  amid  a  crowd 
That  thronged  the  daily  mart, 

Let  fall  a  word  of  hope  and  lovo, 
Unstudied,  from  the  heart. 


/" 


% 


\ 


"The  beautiful  nnow,  Filling tho  t-ky  an']  tho  earth  holow  I ' 


BEAUTIFUL  SNOW. 


443 


A  whisper  on  the  tumult  thrown, 

0  germ  !  0  fount !  0  word  of  love ! 

A  transitory  breath, 

0  thought  at  random  cast ! 

It  raised  a  brother  from  the  dust, 

Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first, 

It  saved  a  soul  from  death. 

But  mighty  at  the  last ! 

BEAUTIFUL  SNOW. 


JAMES   W.   WATSON. 


THE  snow,  the  beautiful  snow, 
Filling  the  sky  and  the  earth  below ! 
Over  the  house-tops,  over  the  street, 
Over   the   heads  of  the   people  you 
meet, 
Dancing, 
Flirting, 

Skimming  along. 
Beautiful  snow  !  it  can  do  nothing  wrong. 
Flying  to  kiss  a  fair  lady's  cheek  ; 
Clinging  to  lips  in  a  frolicsome  freak. 
Beautiful  snow,  from  the  heavens  above. 
Pure  as  an  angel  and  fickle  as  love ! 

0  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow  ! 
How  the  flakes  gather  and  laugh  as  they  go ! 
Whirring  about  in  its  maddening  fun. 
It  plays  in  its  glee  with  every  one. 
Chasing, 

Laughing, 

Hurrying  by, 
It  lights  up  the  face  and  it  sparkles  the  eye  ; 
And  even  the  dogs,  with  a  bark  and  a  bound. 
Snap  at  the  crystals  that  eddy  around. 
The  town  is  alive,  and  its  heart  in  a  glow 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful  snow. 

How  the  wild  crowd  goes  swaying  along. 
Hailing  each  other  with  humor  and  song ! 
How  the  gay  sledges  like  meteors  flash  by, — 
Bright  for  a  moment,  then  lo.st  to  the  eye. 
Ringing, 

Swinging. 

Dashing  they  go 
Over  the  crest  of  the  beautiful  snow : 
Snow  so  pure  when  it  falls  from  the  sk)', 
To  be  trampled  in  mud  by  the  crowd  rushing 
by; 


To  be   trampled  and  tracked  by  the  tho» 

sands  of  feet 
Till  it  blends  with  the  horrible  filth  in  the 

street. 

Once  I  was  pure  as  the  snow, — but  I  fell : 
Fell,  like  the  snowflakes,  from   heaven — to 

hell; 
Fell,  to  be  tramped  as  the  filth  of  the  street; 
Fell,  to  be  scoS'ed,  to  be  spit  on,  and  beat. 
Pleading, 
Cursing, 

Dreading  to  die, 
Selling  my  soul  to  whoever  would  buy. 
Dealing  in  shame  for  a  monsel  of  bread. 
Hating  the  living  and  fearing  the  dead. 
Merciful  God  !  have  I  fallen  so  low  ? 
And  yet  I  was  once  like  this  beautiful  snow! 

Once  I  was  fair  as  the  beautiful  snow, 
With  an  eye  like  its  crystals,  a  heart  like  its 

glow ; 
Once  I  was  loved  for  my  innocent  grace, — 
Flattered  and  sought  for  the  charm  of  my 

face. 
Father, 

Mother, 

Sisters  all, 
God,  and  myself  I  have  lost  by  my  fall. 
The  veriest  wretch  that  goes  shivering  by 
Will  take  a  wide  sweep,  lest  I  wander  too 

nigh; 
For  of  all  that  is  on  or  about  me,  I  know 
There  is  nothing  that's  pure  but  the  beautiful 

snow. 

How  strange  it  should  be  that  this  beautiful 
snow 


^44  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  WASHINGTON. 


Should  fall  ot.  a  sinner  with  nowhere  logo!      Too  wicked  for   prayer,    too   weak   for  my 


How  strange  it  would  be,  when  the  night 

comes  agam, 
If  the  snow  aad  the  ice  struck  my  desperate 
brain ! 
Faintin", 

Freezing, 

Dying  alone, 


moan 
To  be  heard  in  the  crash  of  the  crazy  town, 
Gone  mad  in  its  joy  at  the  snow's  coming 

down ; 
To  lie  and  to  die  in  my  terrible  woe. 
With  a  bed  and  a  shroud  of  the   beautiful 

snow ! 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF   WASHINGTON. 


RUFUS   CHOATE. 


rllE  birthday  of  the  ''Father  of  his  Country!"  May  it  ever  be 
fleshly  remembered  by  American  hearts !  May  it  ever  re-awaken 
in  them  a  filial  veneration  for  his  memory;  ever  re-kindle  the  fires 
of  patriotic  regard  for  the  country  which  he  loved  so  well,  to  which 
he  gave  his  youthful  vigor  and  his  youthful  energy,  during  the 
perilous  period  of  the  early  Indian  warfare ;  to  which  he  devoted 
his  life  in  the  maturity  of  his  powers,  in  the  field ;  to  which  again  he 
offered  the  counsels  of  his  wisdom  and  his  experience,  as  president  of  the 
convention  that  framed  our  Constitution;  which  he  guided  and  directed 
while  in  the  chair  of  state,  and  for  which  the  last  prayer  of  his  earthly 
supplication  was  offered  up,  when  it  came  the  moment  for  him  so  well,  and 
so  grandly,  and  so  calmly,  to  die.  He  was  the  first  man  of  the  time  in 
which  he  grew.  His  memory  is  first  and  most  sacred  in  our  love,  and 
ever  hereafter,  till  the  last  drop  of  blood  shall  freeze  in  the  last  American 
heart,  his  name  shall  be  a  spell  of  power  and  of  might. 

Yes,  gentlemen,  there  is  one  personal,  one  vast  felicity,  which  no  man 
can  share  with  him.  It  was  the  daily  beauty,  and  towering  and  matchless 
glory  of  his  liff3  whi«;li  enabled  him  to  create  his  country,  and  at  the  same 
time,  secup'  an  undying  love  and  regard  from  the  whole  American  j)cople. 
"  The  first  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen  !"  Yes,  first !  Ho  has  our  first 
and  most  fervent  love.  Undoubtedly  tli<3rc  were  brave  and  \vis('  and  good 
men,  before  his  day,  in  every  colony.  But  the  American  natidii,  as  a  nation, 
I  do  not  reckon  to  have  begun  bfjfore  1774.  And  the  first  love  of  that 
Young  America  w.'is  Washington.  The  first  word  she  lispo<l  was  his  name. 
Her  earliest  breath  spoke  it.  It  still  is  her  proud  ejaculation  ;  and  it  will 
be  the  last  gasp  of  her  expiring  life  !  Yes  ;  others  of  our  great  men  have 
been  appreciated — man v  admired  by  all  ; — but  him  we  love  ;  him  we  all 


A  TAILOR'S  POEM  ON  EVENING. 


445 


love.  About  and  around  him  we  call  up  no  dissentient  and  discordant 
and  dissatisfied  elements — no  sectional  prejudice  nor  bias — no  party,  no 
creed,  no  dogma  of  politics.  None  of  these  shall  assail  him.  Yes ;  when 
the  storm  of  battle  blows  darkest  and  rages  highest,  the  memory  of  "Wash- 
ington shall  nerve  every  American  arm,  and  cheer  every  American  heart. 
It  shall  relume  that  Promethean  fire,  that  sublime  flame  of  patriotism,  that 
devoted  love  of  country  which  his  words  have  commended,  which  his 
example  has  consecrated : 

"  Where  may  the  wearied  eye  repose, 

When  gazing  on  the  great ; 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows 

Nor  despicable  state  ? 
Yes — one — the  first,  the  last,  the  best. 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate, 
Bequeathed  the  name  of  Washington, 
To  make  man  blush  there  was  but  one." 


A  TAILOR'S  POEM  ON  EVENING. 


OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 


SAY    hath    put    on    his  jacket,    and 

around 
'    His  burning  bosom  buttoned  it  with 

stars. 
Here  will  I  lay  me  on  the  velvet  grass, 
That  is  like  padding  to  earth's  meagre 
ribs. 
And  hold  communion  with  the  things  about 

me. 
Ah  me !  how  lovely  is  the  golden  braid 
That  binds  the  skirt  of  night's  descending 

robe ! 
The  thin  leaves,   quivering  on  their  silken 

threads, 
Do  make  a  music  like  to  rustling  satin, 
As  the  light  breezes  smooth  their  downy  nap. 

Ha!  what  is  this  that  rises  to  my  touch, 
So  like  a  cushion  ?  Can  it  be  a  cabbage  ? 
It  is,  it  is  that  deeply  injured  flower, 
Which  boys  do  flout  us  with  ; — but  yet  I  love 
thee, 


Thou  giant  rose,  wrapped  in  a  green  surtout 
Doubtless  in  Eden  thou  didst  blush  as  bright 
As  these,  thy  puny  brethren ;  and  thy  breath 
Sweetened  the  fragrance  of  her  spicy  air  ; 
But  now  thou  seemest  like  a  bankrupt  beau. 
Stripped  of  his  gaudy  hues  and  essences, 
And  growing  portly  in  his  sober  garments. 

Is  that  a  swan  that  rides  upon  the  water? 

0  no,  it  is  that  other  gentle  bird, 
Which  is  the  patron  of  our  noble  calling. 

1  well  remember,  in  my  early  years, 
When  these  young  hands  first  closed  upon  a 

goose ; 
I  have  a  scar  upon  my  thimble  finger, 
^VTiich  chronicles  the  hour  of  young  ambition. 
My  father  was  a  tailor,  and  his  father. 
And  my  sire's  grandsire,  all  of  them  wer» 

tailors  ; 
They  had  an  ancient  goose, — it  was  an  heir- 
loom 
From  some  remoter  tailor  of  our  race. 


446 


THE  PELICAK. 


It  happened  I  did  see  it  on  a  time 

When  none  was  near,  and  I  did  deal  with  it, 

And  it  did  burn  me, — 0,  most  fearfully ! 

It  is  a  joy  to  straighten  out  one's  limbs, 
And  leap  elastic  from  the  level  counter. 
Leaving  tlie  petty  grievances  of  earth, 
The  breaking  thread,  the   din  of  clashing 

shears, 
And  all  the  needles  that  do  wound  the  spirit. 
For  such  a  pensive  hour  of  soothing  silence. 
Kind  Nature,  shuffling  in  her  loose  undress, 


Lays  bare  her  shady  bosom; — I  can  feel 
With  all  around  me ; — I  can  hail  the  flowers 
That  spring  earth's  mantle, — and  yon  quiet 

bird. 
That  rides  the  stream,  is  to  me  as  a  brother 
The  vulgar  know  not  all  the  hidden  pockets, 
Where  Nature  stows  away  her  loveliness. 
But  this  unnatural  posture  of  the  legs 
Cramps  my  extended  calves,  and  I  must  go 
Where   I   can    coil   them  in   their  wonted 

fashion. 


THE  PELICAN. 


JAMES   MONTGOMERY. 


r^T  early  dawn  I  marked  them  in  the 
^ky, 
itching  the  morning  colors  on  their 
plumes ; 
^  Not  in  voluptuous  pastime  reveling 

J|  there, 

J  Among  tlie  rosy  clouds,  while  orient 

heaven 
Flamed  like  the  opening  gates  of  Paradise, 
UTience  issued  forth  the  angel  of  the  sun, 
And  gladdened  nature  with  returning  day  : 
— Eager  for  food,  their  searching  eyes  they 

fixed 
On  ocean's  unrolled  volume,  from  a  height 
fhat  brought  immensity  within  their  scope ; 
Fet  with  such  power  of  vision  looked  they 

down. 
As  though  thf^y  watched  the  shell-fish  slowly 

gliding 
O'er  sunken  rocks,  or  climbing  tmes  of  coral. 
On  indefatigabio  wing  uphfld. 
Breath,   pulse,  existence,  Foomcd  suspended 

in  them  : 
They  were  as  pictures  painted  on  the  sky ; 
Till  suddenly,  a.'dant,  away  they  shot. 
Like  meteors  changed  from  stars  to  gleams  of 

lightning. 
And  struck  upon   the  dcfp,  where,  in  wild 

play. 
Their  quarry  floundered,  unHU8j)ecting  barm ; 


With  terrible  voracity,  they  plunged 

Their  heads  among  the  atfrighted  shoals,  anCJ 
beat 

A  tempest  on  the  surges  with  their  wings. 

Till  flashing  clouds  of  foam  and  spray  con- 
cealed them. 

Nimbly  they  seized  and  secreted  their  prey, 

Alive  and  wriggling  in  the  elastic  net ; 

Which  Nature  hung  beneath  their  grasping 
beaks. 

Till,  swollen  with  raptures,  the  unwieldy 
b'jrden 

Clogged  their  slow  flight,  as  hcavil}'  to  land 

These  mighty  hunters  of  the  deep  returned. 

There  on  the  cragged  cliffs  they  perched  at 
ease. 

Gorging  their  helpless  victims  one  by  one; 

Then,  full  and  weary,  side  by  side  they  slept. 

Till  evening  roused  thein  to  the  chase  again. 

Love  found  that  lonely  couple  on  thoir  i.sle, 
And  soon  surrounded  th'in  with  blithe  com- 
panions. 
The   noble   binls,    with    skill    spontaiioous, 

framed 
A  nest  of  n-fds  among  the  giant-grass. 
That  waved  in  lights  and  shadows  o'er  the 

soil. 
There,    in   sweet   thralduiii,    yet   unwceniug 
why, 


THE  TELICAN. 


447 


The   patient  dam,  who  no'er    till    now  had 

known 
Parental  instinct,  brooded  o'er  her  eggs, 
Long  ere  she  found  the  curious  secret  out, 
That  life  was  hatching  in  their  brittle  shells. 
Then,  from  a  wild  rapacious  bird  of  prey, 
Tamed  by  the  kindly  process,  she  became 
That  gentlest  of  all  living  things, — a  mother; 
Gentlest  while    yearning    o'er    her    naked 

young  ; 
Fiercest  when   stirred  by  anger   to   defend 

them. 


While  the  plump  nestlings  throbbed  agaiosf 

his  heart, 
The  tenderness  that  makes  the  vulture  mild; 
Yea,  half  unwillingly  his  post  resigned, 
When,  home-sick   with   the  absence  of  au 

hour. 
She  hurried  back,  and  drove  him  from  her 

seat 
With  pecking  bill  and  cry  of  fond  distress, 
Answered  by  him  with  murmurs  of  delight, 
Wliose  gutturals  harsh,   to  her  were  love'i 

own  music. 


Her  mate  himself  the  softening  power  con- 
fessed. 
Forgot  his  sloth,  restrained  his  appetite. 
And  ranged  the  sky  and  fished  the  stream 

for  her. 
Or,  when  o'erwearied  Nature  forced  her  ofif 
To  shake  her  torpid  feathers  in  the  breeze, 
And  bathe  her  bosom  in  the  cooling  flood, 
Be  took  her  place,  and  felt  through  every 
Pierre, 


Then,  settling  down,  like  foam  upon  tlie  war*, 
White,  flickering,  efl'ervescent,  soon  subsiding. 
Her  ruffled  pinions  smoothly  she  composed ; 
And,  while  beneath  the  comfort  of  her  wing% 
Her  crowded  progeny  quite  filled  the  nest. 
The  halcyon  sleeps  not  sounder,  when  th« 

wind 
Is  breathless,  and  the  sea  without  a  curl, 
— Nor  dreams  the  halcyon  of  serener  days, 
Or  nights  more  beautiful  with  silent  stars, 


448  A  TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY. 

Than,  in  that  hour,  the  mother  pelican,  ,  The  snap  of  his  tremendous  bill  was  like 

When  the  warm  tumults  of  afiection  sunk        |  Death's  scythe,  down-cutting  everything  it 
Into  calm  sleep,  and  dreams  of  what  they  |  struck. 

•were,  I  The  heedless  lizard,  in  bis  gambols,  peeped 

Dreams  more  delicious  than  reality.  i  Upon  the  guarded  nest,  from  out  the  flowers, 

— He  sentinel  beside  her  stood,  and  watched  !  But  paid  the  instant  forfeit  of  his  life; 

With  jealous  eye  the  raven  in  the  clouds,         I  Nor  could  the  serpent's  subtlety  elude 

And  the  rank  sea-mews  wheeling  round  the  ,  Capture,  when  gliding  by,  nor  in  defence 

cliffs.  I  Might  his  malignant  fangs  and  venom  save 

Woe  to  the  reptile  then  that  ventured  nigh!    '  him. 


A  TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY. 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


jN  the  course  of  a  voyage  from  England,  I  once  fell  in  with  a  convoy  ot 
merchant   ships,  bound   for   the   West  Indies.     The   weather   was 
'W     uncommonly  bland ;  and  the  ships  vied  with  each  other  in  spreading 
>       sail  to  catch  a  light,  favorable  breeze,  until  their  hulls  were  almost 
I       hidden  beneath  a  cloud  of  canvass.     The  breeze  went  down  with  the 
1    sun,  and  his  last  yellow  rays  shone  upon  a  thousand  sails,  idly  flap- 
ping against  the  masts. 

I  exulted  in  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  and  augured  a  prosperous  voyage , 
but  the  veteran  master  of  the  ship  shook  his  head,  and  pronounced  this 
halcyon  calm  a  "weather-breeder."  And  so  it  proved.  A  storm  burst 
forth  in  the  night;  the  sea  roared  and  raged;  and  when  the  day  broke,  I 
beheld  the  gallant  convoy  scattered  in  every  direction ;  some  dismasted, 
others  scudding  under  bare  poles,  and  many  firing  signals  of  distress. 

I  have  since  been  occasionally  reminded  of  this  scene  by  those  calm, 
sunny  seasons  in  the  commercial  world,  which  are  known  by  the  name  of 
"times  of  unexampled  prosperity."  They  are  the  sure  weather-breeders  of 
traffic.  Every  now  and  then  the  world  is  visited  by  one  of  these  delusive 
seasons,  when  the  "credit  system,"  as  it  is  called,  expands  to  full  luxu- 
riance: everybody  trusts  everybody;  a  bad  debt  is  a  thing  unheard  of ;  the 
broad  way  to  certain  and  sudden  wealth  lies  plain  and  open;  and  men  are 
tempted  to  dtish  forward  boldly,  from  the  facility  of  borrowing. 

Promi.ssory  notes,  interchanged  bctw(^en  scheming  individuals,  aio 
liberally  discounted  at  the  banks,  which  become  so  many  mints  to  coin 
words  into  cash;  and  as  the  supply  of  words  is  inc^xhaustiblo,  it  may 
readily  be  suppo.sed  what  a  vjust  amount  of  jiromissory  caj)ital  is  soon  in 
circulation.     Everyone    now    talks    in    thousands;    nothing   is  hoard   bui 


A  TIME  OF  UNEXAMPLED  PROSPERITY.  44c 

gigantic  operations  in  trade;  great  purchases  and  sales  of  real  property,  and 
immense  sums  made  at  every  transfer.  All,  to  be  sure,  as  yet  exists  in 
promise;  but  the  believer  in  promises  calculates  the  aggregate  as  solid 
capital,  and  falls  back  in  amazement  at  the  amount  of  public  wealth,  the 
"unexampled  state  of  public  prosperity!" 

Now  is  the  time  for  speculative  and  dreaming  or  designing  men.  They 
relate  their  dreams  and  projects  to  the  ignorant  and  credulous,  dazzle  them 
with  golden  visions,  and  set  them  maddening  after  shadows.  The  example 
of  one  stimulates  another ;  speculation  rises  on  speculation ;  bubble  rises 
on  bubble ;  everyone  helps  with  his  breath  to  swell  the  windy  superstruc- 
ture, and  admires  and  wonders  at  the  magnitude  of  the  inflation  he  has 
contributed  to  produce. 

Speculation  is  the  romance  of  trade,  and  casts  contempt  upon  all  its 
sober  realities.  It  renders  the  stock-jobber  a  magician,  and  the  exchange 
a  region  of  enchantment.  It  elevates  the  merchant  into  a  kind  of  knight- 
errant,  or  rather  a  commercial  Quixote.  The  slow  but  sure  gains  of  snug 
percentage  become  despicable  in  his  eyes:  no  "operation"  is  thought 
worthy  of  attention  that  does  not  double  or  treble  the  investment.  No 
business  is  worth  following  that  does  not  promise  an  immense  fortune.  As, 
he  sits  musing  over  his  ledger,  with  pen  behind  his  ear,  he  is  like  La 
Mancha's  hero,  in  his  study,  dreaming  over  his  books  of  chivalry.  His 
dusty  counting-house  fades  before  his  eyes,  or  changes  into  a  Spanish  mine ; 
he  gropes  after  diamonds,  or  dives  after  pearls.  The  subterranean  garden 
of  Aladdin  is  nothing  to  the  realms  of  wealth  that  break  upon  his  imagina- 
tion. 

Could  this  delusion  always  last,  the  life  of  a  merchant  would  indeed 
be  a  golden  dream;  but  it  is  as  short  as  it  is  brilliant.  Let  but  a  doubt 
enter,  and  the  "season  of  unexampled  prosperity"  is  at  an  end.  The 
coinage  of  words  is  suddenly  curtailed;  the  promissory  capital  begins  to 
vanish  into  smoke;  a  panic  succeeds,  and  the  whole  superstructure,  built 
upon  credit,  and  reared  by  speculation,  crumbles  to  the  ground,  leaving 
scarce  a  wreck  behind. 

"  It  is  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of."  AVhen  a  man  of  business, 
therefore,  hears  on  every  side  rumors  of  fortunes  suddenly  acquired ;  when 
he  finds  banks  liberal,  and  brokers  busy;  when  he  sees  adventurers  flush  of 
paper  capital,  and  full  of  scheme  and  enterprise ;  when  he  perceives  a 
greater  disposition  to  buy  than  to  sell ;  when  trade  overflows  its  accustomed 
channels,  and  deluges  the  country;  when  he  hears  of  new  regions  of  com- 
mercial adventure;  of  distant  marts  and  distant  mines  swallowing  merchan- 
dise, and  disgorging  gold;  when  he  finds  joint  stock  companies  of  all  kinds 


450 


WHEN. 


forming;  railroads,  canals,  and  locomotive-engines  springing  up  on  every 
side;  when  idlers  suddenly  become  men  of  business,  and  dash  into  the  game 
of  commerce  as  the  gambler  would  into  the  hazards  of  the  farortable;  when 
he  beholds  the  streets  gUttering  with  new  equipages,  palaces  conjured  up 
by  the  magic  of  speculation ;  tradesmen  flushed  with  sudden  success,  and 
vying  with  each  other  in  ostentatious  expense ;  in  a  word,  when  he  hears 
the  whole  community  joining  in  the  theme  of  "unexampled  prosperity,"  let 
him  look  upon  the  whole  as  a  "weather-breeder,"  and  prepare  for  the 
impending  storm. 


THE  PATIENT  STORK. 


LORD    THURLOW. 


} 


MELANCHOLY  bird,  the  long,  long 
day 
Thou  standest  by  the  margin  of 

the  pool, 
And,   taught     by  God,    dost    thy 
whole  being  school, 
To  patience,  which  all  evil  can  allay. 
God  has  appointed  thee  the  fish  thy 
prey. 
And  given  thyself  a  lesson  to  the  fool. 


Unthrifty,  to  submit  to  moral  rule, 
And  his  unthinking  course  by  thee  to  weigh, 

There  need  not  schools  nor  the  professor's 
chair, 
Though  these  be  good,  true  wisdom  to  impart: 

He  who  has  not  enough  for  these  to  sparer 
Of  time  or  gold,  may  yet  amend  his  heart, 

And  teach  his  soul  hy  brooks  and  rivers 
fair, — 
Nature  is  always  wise  in  ever}-  part. 


WHEN. 


SUSAN    COOLIDGE. 


\2l^  I  were  told  that  I  must  dif;  to-morrow. 
That  the  nfxt  sun 
Which  fiiaks  should  boar  me  past  all 
fear  and  Horrow 

For  any  one, 
\       All  the  fight  fought,  all  the  short  jour- 
1  noy  through. 

What  filiouM  I  do  ? 

f  t\o  not  think  tliat  I  nhould  Hlirink  or  fallrr, 

lint  juHt  go  on. 
Doing  my  work,  nor  change  nor  Keek  to  alter 

Aught  that  is  gone  ; 


But  rise  and  move  and  love  anil  smile  Rn3 
J, ray 

For  one  more  ilay. 

And,  lying  down  at  night  for  a  hist  slcnping, 

►Say  in  that  oar 
Whidi    hearkens   ever:  "Lord,  williin  Thy 
k<'cpiiig 

How  should  I  f.ar? 
And  when   to-morrow    brings   Thee   nearer 
Htiil 

Do  Thou  Tliy  wdl." 


f^^3sf>^ir^^iaS';;ZAa5'C^^^_firPiiA!:i:-.'x':;;_'Af, 


THERE  IS  NO  DEATH. 


451 


I  might   not  sleep    for    awe  ;   hut   peucelul, 
tender, 

My  soul  would  lie 
An  the  ni^ht  long;  and  when  the  morning 
splendor 

Flushed  o'er  the  sky, 
I  think  that  I  could  smile — could  calmly  say, 
"  It  is  His  day." 

But  if  a  wondrous  hand  from  the  blue  yonder 

Held  out  a  scroll. 
On  which  my  life  was  writ,  and  I  with  wonder 

Beheld  unroll 
To  a  long  century's  end  its  mystic  clue, 

What  should  I  do  ? 

What  could  I  do,  oh !    blessed  Guide  and 
Master, 

Other  than  this ; 
Still  to  go  on  as  now,  not  slower,  faster, 

Nor  fear  to  miss 
Tie  road,  although  so  very  long  it  be. 

While  led  by  Thee? 


Step  after  step,  feeling  Thee  close  beside  me. 

Although  unseeu, 
Through  thorns,  thiough  flowers,  whether  the 
tempest  hide  Thee 

Or  heavens  serene. 
Assured  Thy  faithfulness  cannot  betray, 

Thy  love  decay. 

I   may  not  know ;    my  God,  no   hand   re 
vealeth 

Thy  counsels  wise ; 
Along  the  path  a  deepening  shadow  stealeth, 

No  voice  replies 
To  all  my  questioning  thought,  the  time  to 
tell, 

And  it  is  well. 

Let  me  keep  on,  abiding  and  unfearing 

Thy  will  always. 
Through  a  long  century's  ripening  fruition 

Or  a  short  day's. 
Thou  canst  not  come  too  soon ;  and  I  can 
wait 

If  Thou  come  late. 


THERE  IS  NO  DEATH. 


LORD    LYTTON. 


=HERE  is  no  death  !  The  stars  go  down 
To  rise  upon  some  fairer  shore  : 
-^1>a^    And   bright  in   Heaven's    jewelled 
crown 
\\  They  shine  forevermore. 

There  is  no  death  !     The  dust  we  tread 
Shall  change  beneath  the  summer  showers 

To  golden  grain  or  mellowed  fruit, 
Or  rainbow-tinted  flovers, 

The  granite  rocks  disorganize, 

And  feed  the  hungry  moss  they  bear ; 

The  forest  leaves  drink  daily  life. 
From  out  the  viewless  air. 

There  is  no  death  !     The  leaves  may  fall. 
And  flowers  may  fade  and  pass  away  ; 


They  only  wait  through  wintry  hours, 
The  coming  of  the  May. 

There  is  no  death  !     An  angel  form 
Walks  o'er  the  earth  with  silent  tread  r 

He  bears  our  best  loved  things  away: 
And  then  we  call  them  "dead." 

He  leaves  our  hearts  all  desolate. 

He  plucks  our  fairest,  sweetest  flowers 

Transplanted  into  bliss,  they  now 
Adorn  immortal  bowers. 

The  bird-like  voice,  whose  joyous  tones. 

^Lxde  glad  these  scenes  of  sin  and  striie 
Sings  now  an  everlasting  song. 

Around  the  tree  of  life. 


152 


PAYIX'J  IIEL  WAY 


W^here'er  he  sees  a  smile  too  briglit, 
Or  heart  too  pure  for  taint  and  vice, 

He  bears  it  to  that  worM  of  light, 
To  dwell  in  Paradise. 

Born  unto  that  undying  life, 
Ibey  leave  us  but  to  come  again ; 


With  joy  we  welcome  them  the  sama.- 
Except  their  sin  and  pain. 

And  ever  near  us,  though  unseen^ 
The  dear  immortal  spirits  tread; 

For  all  the  boundless  universe 
Is  life — there  are  no  dead. 


,T:^< 


PA  YING  HER   WA  F. 


'lIAT    has   rny  darling   b(;en    doing 
to-day, 
-w        To  pay  for  hi-r  washing  and  mend- 
ing? 
How  can  hIk!  manago  to  keep  out  of 
debt 
For  80  much  caroHHing  and  tend- 
ing ? 

Jloiir  can  I  wait  till  (Ik!  years  nhallhave  flown 
And    the  liands    have    grown    larger  and 
stronger  7 


Who  will  lie  able  the  interest  to  pay. 
If  the  debt  runs  many  years  longer? 

Dear  little  feet!     TTow  thoy  fly  to  my  side 

Wliito  arms  my  nock  are  caressing; 
Sweetest  of  kisses  are  laid  on  my  chrck ; 

Fair  head  my  shoulder  is  yiressing. 
Nothing  at  all  from  my  darling  is  duo — 

From  evil  may  angels  defi-nd  her — 
The  diibt  is  discliargod  as  fast  as  'tis  xaaA% 

For  love  is  a  legal  tondef. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  HUMANITY.  453 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  HUMANITY. 


CHARLES   SUMNER. 


^ET  US,  then,  be  of  good  cheer.     From  the  great  law  of  progress  we 

_^^  .  may  derive  at  once  our  duties  and  our  encouragements.     Humanity 

"^^    has  ever  advanced,  urged  by  the  instincts  and  necessities  implanted 

f     by  God, — thwarted  sometimes  by  obstacles  which  have  caused  it  for 

1      a  time — a  moment  only,  in  the  immensity  of  ages — to  deviate  from 

its  true  line,  or  to  seem  to  retreat, — but  still  ever  onward. 

Amidst  the  disappointments  which  may  attend  individual  exertions, 
amidst  the  universal  agitations  which  now  surround  us,  let  us  recognize 
this  law,  confident  that  whatever  is  just,  whatever  is  humane,  whatever  is 
good,  whatever  is  true,  according  to  an  immutable  ordinance  of  Provi- 
dence, in  the  golden  light  of  the  future,  must  prevail.  With  this  faith,  let 
us  place  our  hands,  as  those  of  little  children,  in  the  great  hand  of  God. 
He  will  ever  guide  and  sustain  us — through  pains  and  perils,  it  may  be — 
in  the  path  of  progress. 

In  the  recognition  of  this  law,  there  are  motives  to  beneficent  activity, 
which  shall  endure  to  the  last  syllable  of  life.  Let  the  young  embrace  it : 
they  shall  find  in  it  an  everliving  spring.  Let  the  old  cherish  it  still : 
they  shall  derive  from  it  fresh  encouragement.  It  shall  give  to  all,  both 
old  and  young,  a  new  appreciation  of  their  existence,  a  new  sentiment  of 
their  force,  a  new  revelation  of  their  destiny. 

Be  it,  then,  our  duty  and  our  encouragement  to  live  and  to  labor, 
ever  mindful  of  the  future.  But  let  us  not  forget  the  past.  All  ages 
have  lived  and  labored  for  us.  From  one  has  come  art,  from  another 
jurisprudence,  from  another  the  compass,  from  another  the  printing-press; 
from  all  have  proceeded  priceless  lessons  of  truth  and  virtue.  The  earliest 
and  most  distant  times  are  not  without  a  present  influence  on  our  daily 
lives.  The  mighty  stream  of  progress,  though  fed  by  many  tributary 
waters  and  hidden  springs,  derives  something  of  its  force  from  the  earliest 
currents  which  leap  and  sparkle  in  the  distant  mountain  recesses,  over  pre- 
cipices, among  rapids,  and  beneath  the  shade  of  the  primeval  forest. 

Nor  should  we  be  too  impatient  to  witness  the  fulfilment  of  our  aspi- 
rations. The  daily  increasing  rapidity  of  discovery  and  improvement,  and 
the  daily  multiplying  efforts  of  beneficence,  in  later  years  outstripping  the 
imaginations  of  the  most  sanguine,  furnish  well-grounded  assurance  that 
the  advance  of  man  will  be  with  a  constantly  accelerating  speed.  The 
extending  intercourse  among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  and  among  all  the 


454 


HIDE  AND  SEEK. 


children  of  the  human  family,  gives  new  promise  of  the  complete  diffusion 
of  truth,  penetrating  the  most  distant  places,  chasing  away  the  darkness  of 
night,  and  exposing  the  hideous  forms  of  slavery,  of  war,  of  wrong,  which 
must  be  hated  as  soon  as  they  are  clearly  seen. 

Cultivate,  then,  a  just  moderation.  Learn  to  reconcile  order  with 
change,  stability  with  progress.  This  is  a  wise  conservatism ;  this  is  a 
wise  reform.  Eightly  understanding  these  terms,  who  would  not  be  a 
conservative  ?  who  would  not  be  a  reformer  ? — a  conservative  of  all  that 
is  good,  a  reformer  of  all  that  is  evil;  a  conservative  of  knowledge,  a 
reformer  of  ignorance ;  a  conservative  of  truths  and  principles  whose  seat 
is  the  bosom  of  God,  a  reformer  of  laws  and  institutions  which  are  but  the 
wicked  or  imperfect  work  of  man ;  a  conservative  of  that  divine  order 
which  is  found  only  in  movement,  a  reformer  of  those  early  wrongs  and 
abuses  which  spring  from  a  violation  of  the  great  law  of  human  progress. 
Blending  these  two  characters  in  one,  let  us  seek  to  be,  at  the  same  time, 
lleforming  Conservatives,  and  Conservative  Reformers. 


EIDE  AND  SEEK. 


JULIA    GODDARD. 


UDE  and  seek  I     Two  children  at  play 
On  a  sunshiny  holiday — 
j,f-i~^   "Where  is  the   treasure  hidden,   I 
a/ »  pray ; 

4  Say — am  I  near  it  or  far  away  ? 

I      Hot  or  cold?"    asks  little  Nell, 
.y     With  her   flaxen   hair  all   tangled  and 

wild, 
And  her  voice  as  clear  as  a  fairy  bell 
That  the  fairies  ring  at  eventide — 
Scrambling  under  table  and  chair. 
Peeping  into  the  cupboards  wide, 
Till  a  joyous  voice  rings  through  the  air — 
"  0  ho  !  a  very  good  place  to  hide  I" 
And  little  Nell,  creeping  along  the  ground. 
Murmurs    in    triumph,    "  I've    found,    I've 
found  !" 

Hide  and  seek  !     Not  children  now — 
Ijife's  noontide  sun  hath  kisHod  each  brow, 
Nell's  turn  to  hide  the  treasure  to  day  ; 
Bo  safely  she  thinks  it  hidden  away, 


That  she  fears  her  lover  cannot  find  it. 
Say,  shall  she  help  him  ?     Her  eyes,  so  shy, 
Half  tell  the  secret,  and  half  deny  ; 
And  the  green  leaves  rustle  witli  lavigliler 

sweet. 
And  the    little  birds  twitter,    "  Oh,    foolish 

lover, 
Has  love  bewitched  ami  l)liii<lfd  thine  eyes — 
So  that  the  truth  thou  canst  not  discover  ?" 
Then   the  sun   gleams   out,   all    golden   and 

bright, 
And  sends  through  the  wood- path  a  clearer 

light; 
See  the  lover  raises  his  eyes  from  the  grounii. 
And  reails  in  Nell's  face  that  the  treasure 

is  found. 

What  are  (he  angels  seeking  fur 
Through  the  world  in  the  darksome  niglit? 
A  treasure  tliat  eartli  lias  stoli-n  iivvay, 
And  hidden  'midst  flowers  for  many  a  day, 


THE  LION'S  RIDE. 


455 


Hidden  through    sunshine,    through   storm, 

through  blight, 
Till  it  wa3ted  and  grew  to  a  form  so  slight 
And  worn,  that  scarce  in  the  features  white 
Could  one  trace  likeness  to  gladsome  Nell. 
But  the  angels  knew  her  as  there  she  lay, 
All  quietly  sleeping,  and  bore  her  away, 
Jp  to  the  city,  jasper-walled — 
Up  to  the  city  with  golden  street — 


Uj)  to  the  city,  like  crystal  clear, 

Where  the  pure  and  the  sinless  meet ; 
And  through  costly  pearl-gates  that  opened 

wide. 
They  bore  the  treasure  earth  tried  to  bide. 
And  weeping  mortals  listened  with  awe 
To  the  silver  echo  that  srnote  the  skies, 
As  "  Found?"  rang  forth  from  Paradise. 


THE  LION'S  RIDE. 


FERDINAND    FREILIGRATH. 


'lIE  lion  is  the  desert's  king;  through 
his  domain  so  wide 
Right  swiftly  and  right  royally  this 

night  he  means  to  ride. 
By  the  sedgy  brink,  where  the  wild 
herds  drink,  close  couches  the  grim 
chief; 
The  trembling  sycamore  above  whis- 
pers with  every  leaf. 

At  evening,  on   the  Table  Mount,  when  ye 

can  see  no  more 
The  changeful  play  of  signals  gay  ;  when  the 

gloom  is  speckled  o'er 
With'  kraal   fires ;    when   the  Caffre   wends 

home  through  the  lone  karroo  ; 
When  the  boshbok  in  the  thicket  sleeps,  and 

by  the  stream  the  gnu  ; 

Then  bend  your  gaze  across  the  waste — What 

see  ye  ?  The  girafie. 
Majestic,  stalks  toward  the  lagoon,  the  turbid 

lymph  to  quaff; 
With  outstretched  neck   and  tongue  adust, 

he  kneels  him  down  to  cool 
His  hot  thir-st  with  a  welcome  draught  from 

the  foul  and  brackish  pool. 

A.  rustling   sound — a    roar — a    bound — the 

lion  sits  astride 
Jpon   his   giant  courser's   back.     Did   ever 

king  so  ride  ? 
Had    ever   a    steed   so    rare,  caparisons    of 

state 

31 


To  match  the  dappled  skin  whereon  that 
rider  sits  elate  ? 

In   the  muscles   of  the   neck   his   teeth   are 

plunged  with  ravenous  greed ; 
His  tawny  mane  is  tossing  round  the  withers 

of  the  steed. 
Up  leaping  with  a  hollow  yell  of  anguish 

and  surprise. 
Away,   away,  in   wild    dismay,  the   camel 

leopard  flies. 

His  feet  have   wings ;  see   how   he   springs 

across  the  moonlit  plain ! 
As  from  their  sockets  they  would  burst,  his 

glaring  eyeballs  strain ; 
In  thick  black  streams  of  purling  blood,  full 

fast  his  life  is  fleeting ; 
The  stillness  of  the  desert  hears  his  heart's 

tumultuous  beating. 

Like  the  cloud  that,  through  the  wilderness, 
the  path  of  Israel  traced — 

Like  an  airy  phantom,  dull  and  wan,  a  spirit 
of  the  waste — 

From  the  sandy  sea  uprising,  as  the  water- 
spout from  the  ocean, 

A  whirling  cloud  of  dust  keeps  pace  with  th< 
courser's  fiery  motion. 

Croaking  companion  of  their  flight,  the  vul- 
ture whirs  on  high ; 


456 


DIES  IR.*. 


Below  the  terror  of  the  fold,  the   panther 

fierce  and  sly, 
And  hyenas  foul,  round  graves  that  prowl, 

join  in  the  horrid  race  ; 
By  the  foot-prints  wet  with  gore  and  sweat, 

their  monarch's  course  they  trace. 

They  see  him  on  his  living  throne,  and  quake 

with  fear,  the  while 
With  claws  of  steel  he  tears  piecemeal  his 

cushion's  painted  pile. 
On  !  on  I  no  pause,  no  rest,  giraffe,  while  life 

and  strength  remain ! 


The  steed  by  such  a  rider  backed,  may  madiy 
plunge  in  vain. 

Reeling  upon  the  desert's  verge,  he  falls,  and 

breathes  his  last ; 
The  courser,  strained  with  dust  and  foam,  is 

the  rider's  fell  repast. 
O'er  Madagascar,  eastward  far,  a  faint  flush 

is  descried : 
Thus  nightly,  o'er  his  broad    domain,    the 

king  of  beasts  doth  ride. 


DIES  IB^. 


THOMAS  OF  CELANO,  A.  D.,  1208. 


Translated  by  Dr.  Alsraliam  Coles. 


jAY  of  wrath !  that  day  of  burning. 
Seer  and  sibyl  speak  concerning, 
All  the  world  to  ashes  turning  ! 

Oh,  what  fear  shall  it  engender. 
When  the  Judge  shall  come  in  splen- 
dor. 
Strict  to  mark  and  just  to  render ! 

Trumpet,  scattering  sounds  of  wonder, 
Rending  sepulchres  asunder, 
Shall  reai.stlfps  summons  thunder. 

Ul  aghast  then  Death  shall  shiver. 
And  great  Nature's  frame  shall  quiver, 
When  the  graves  their  dead  deliver. 

Book,  where  actions  are  recorded. 

All  the  ages  have  afforded. 

Shall  be  brought  and  dooms  awarded. 

When  shall  sit  the  Judge  unerring. 
He'll  unfold  all  here  occurring, 
No  just  vengeance  then  deferring. 

What  shall  /say.  that  time  pending? 
Ask  what  advocate's  befriendini». 
WL'n  the  ju^t  man  needs  defending  ? 


Think,  0  Jesus,  for  what  reason 

Thou  didst  bear  earth's  spite  and  treason. 

Nor  me  lose  in  that  dread  season  ! 

Seeking  me  Thy  worn  feet  hasted  ; 
On  the  cross  Thy  soul  death  tasteil, — 
Let  such  travail  not  be  wasted  1 

Righteous  Judge  of  retribution  ! 
Make  me  gift  of  absolution 
Ere  that  day  of  execution  ! 

Culprit-like,  I  plead,  heart-broken. 
On  my  cheek  shame's  crimson  token: 
Let  the  pardoning  word  he  sjioken  ! 

Thou,  who  Mary  gav'st  remission, 
Ileard'st  the  dying  thief's  petition, 
Cheer'st  with  hope  my  lost  condition. 

Though  my  prayers  be  void  of  merit, 
What  is  nec(lful.  Thou  conf>r  it, 
Lost  I  endless  fire  inherit  ! 

Be  then.  Lord,  my  jdaco  decided 
With  Thy  slieep,  from  goal,s  divided. 
Kindly  to  Thy  right  hand  gui<led! 


MANIFEST  DESTINY. 


457 


When  the  accursed  away  are  driven, 

To  eternal  burnings  given, 

Call  me  with  the  blest  to  heaven ! 

I  beseech  Thee,  prostrate  lying, 
Heart  as  ashes,  contrite,  sighing. 


Care  for  me  when  I  am  dying  ! 

Day  of  tears  and  late  repentance ! 
Man  shall  rise  to  hear  his  sentence : 
Him,  the  child  of  guilt  and  error, 
Spare,  Lord,  in  that  hour  of  terror ! 


MANIFEST  DESTINY. 


JOSH    BILLINGS. 

MANIFEST  destiny  iz  the  science  ov  going  tew  bust,  or  enny  other 
place  before  yu  git  thare.  I  may  be  rong  in  this  centiment,  but 
that  iz  the  way  it  strikes  me ;  and  i  am  so  put  together  that  when 
enny  thing  strikes  me  i  immejiately  strike  back.  Manifest 
destiny  mite  perhaps  be  blocked  out  agin  as  the  condishun  that  man 
and  things  find  theraselfs  in  with  a  ring  in  their  nozes  and  sumboddy 
liold  ov  the  ring.  I  may  be  rong  agin,  but  if  i  am,  awl  i  have  got  tew  sa 
iz,  i  don't  kno  it,  and  what  a  man  don't  kno  ain't  no  damage  tew  enny  boddy 
else.  The  tru  way  that  manifess  destiny  had  better  be  sot  down  iz,  the 
exact  distance  that  a  frog  kan  jump  down  hill  with  a  striped  snake  after  him ; 
i  don't  kno  but  i  may  be  rong  oust  more,  but  if  the  frog  don't  git  ketched 
the  destiny  iz  jist  what  he  iz  a  looking  for. 

When  a  man  falls  into  the  bottom  ov  a  well  and  makes  up  liiz  minde 
tew  stay  thare,  that  ain't  manifess  destiny  enny  more  than  having  yure 
hair  cut  short  iz ;  but  if  he  almoste  gits  out  and  then  falls  down  in  agin 
]  6  foot  deeper  and  brakes  off  hiz  neck  twice  in  the  same  plase  and  dies  and 
iz  buried  thare  at  low  water,  that  iz  manifess  destiny  on  the  square. 
Standing  behind  a  cow  in  fly  time  and  gitting  kicked  twice  at  one  time, 
must  feel  a  good  deal  like  manifess  destiny.  Being  about  10  seckunds  tew 
late  tew  git  an  express  train,  and  then  chasing  the  train  with  yure  wife, 
and  an  umbreller  in  yure  hands,  in  a  hot  day,  and  not  getting  az  near  tew 
the  train  az  you  waz  when  started,  looks  a  leetle  like  manifess  destiny 
on  a  rale  rode  trak.  Going  into  a  tempranse  house  and  calling  for  a  little 
old  Bourbon  on  ice,  and  being  told  in  a  mild  way  that  "  the  Bourbon  iz  jist 
out,  but  they  hav  got  sum  gin  that  cost  72  cents  a  gallon  in  Paris," 
sounds  tew  me  like  the  manifess  destiny  ov  moste  tempranse  houses. 

Mi  dear  reader,  don't  beleave  in  manifess  destiny  until  yu  see  it. 
Thare  is  such  a  thing  az  manifess  destiny,  but  when  it  occurs  it  iz  like  the 
number  ov  rings  on  the  rakoon's  tale,  ov  no  great  consequense  onla  for 


458 


BILL  AND  JOE. 


ornament.  Man  wan't  made  for  a  machine,  if  he  waz,  it  was  a  locomotifl 
machine,  and  manifess  destiny  must  git  oph  from  the  trak  when  the  bell 
dngs  or  git  knocked  higher  than  the  price  ov  gold.  Manifess  destiny  iz  a 
iisseaze,  but  it  iz  eazy  tew  heal ;  i  have  seen  it  in  its  wust  stages  cured  bi 
cawing  a  cord  ov  dri  hickory  wood,  i  thought  i  had  it  onse,  it  broke  out 
in  the  shape  ov  poetry ;  i  sent  a  speciment  ov  the  disseaze  tew  a  magazine, 
the  magazine  man  wrote  me  next  day  az  follers, 

"  Dear  Sur:  Yu  may  be  a  phule,  but  you  are  no  poeck.     Yures,  in 
haste." 


BILL  AND  JOE. 


0.    W.    HOLMES. 


Ij^^OME,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 
Vjt;^   Will  steal  an  hour   from  days  gone 
:  by- 

^1'9    The  shining  days  when  life  was  new, 
^      And  all  was  bright  as  morning  dew, 
^     The  lusty  days  of  long  ago, 
J      When  you  were  Bill  and  I  was  Joe. 

Your  name  may  flaunt  a  titled  trail, 
Proud  as  a  cockerel's  rainbow  tail  ; 
And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  luckless  mare ; 
To-day,  old  friend,  remember  still 
That  I  am  Joe  and  you  are  Bill. 

You've  won  the  great  world's  envied  prize, 

And  grand  you  look  in  people's  eyes, 

Witli  HON.  and  LL.D., 

In  Ijig  brave  letters,  fair  to  see — 

Your  fist,  old  fellow  !  oET  they  go! — 

How  are  you,  Bill?     How  are  you,  Joe? 

You've  worn  the  judge's  ermine  robe; 
You've  taught  your  name  to  half  the  globo 
You've  sung  mankind  a  deathless  strain  ; 
You've  made  the  dead  past  live  again  ; 
The  world  may  call  you  what  it  will. 
But  you  and  I  are  Joe  and  Bill 

The  rhaffing  young  folks  stare  and  say, 
■'  .S<'<!  tlio.Mtf  old  biifl'T.'t,  bent  and  gray; 


They  talk  like  fellows  in  their  teens  ! 
Mad,    poor     old     boys  !       That's    what 

means" — 
And  shake  their  heads;  they  little  know 
The  throbbing  hearts  of  Bill  and  Joe — 

How  Bill  forgets  his  hour  of  pride, 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  his  side  ; 
How  Joe,  in  spite  of  time's  disguise, 
Finds  the  old  schoolmate  in  his  eyes — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  fill 
As  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

Ah,  pensive  scholar!  wliat  is  fame? 

A  fitful  tongue  of  leaping  flame ; 

A  giddy  whirlwind's  fickle  gust, 

That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust: 

A  few  swift  years,  and  who  can  show 

Whicli  dust  was  Bill,  and  which  was  Joe? 

The  weary  i<lol  takes  his  stand, 

Holds  out  his  bruised  and  aching  hand, 

While  gaping  thousands  come  and  go — 

How  vain  it  seems,  this  empty  show  ! — 

Till  all  at  once  his  pulses  thrill : 

'Tis  poor  old  Joe's  "  God  bless  you,  Bill !  " 

And  shall  we  breathe  in  happier  splu-roa 
The  naiiii'H  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears, — 
In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song. 
For  earth-born  spirits  none  too  long, — 
Just  wiiispering  of  the  worhl  below. 
Where  this  was  Bill,  and  that  \Mas  Joe/ 


MA'JI  JlJliLER. 


45S 


No  matter ;  while  our  home  is  here 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear  ; 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 


Who  cares  what  pompous  tombstones  say  ? 
Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  stil) 
Hicjacet  Joe.     Hicjacet  Bill.  " 


MA  UD  MULLER. 


J.    Cr.    WHITTIER. 

r?AUD  MuUer,  on  a  summer's  day,  But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far  off  towa, 

\  Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay.      White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

^^feS^  I  The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 

y*W*><    Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the       .     ,  ,       ,       .       <;ii   i  i  ^    \.^^..^^ 

^4,^  *'  And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast — 

wealth  i 

Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health,      a.  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 

For  something  better  than  she  had  known 


Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  mer- 
ry glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 


The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 


460 


MAUD  MULLER. 


He  drew  his  bridle  in  tlie  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a   draught   from    the    spring   that 

flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown, 

"  Thanks !"    said    the    Judge,    "  a    sweeter 

draught 
Prom  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees  ; 

Then  talked   of  the  haying,  and    wondered 

whether 
The   cloud   in    the   west  would   bring    foul 

weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  briar-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown  ; 

And  li.stened,  while  a  pleased  surjirise 
Looked  from  hfr  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed  :  "  Ali  me  ! 
Tliat  I  the  Jadge's  bride  might  be  ! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fim-, 
And  praise  and  toast  mo  at  his  wim-. 

"My  father  should  wear  a  broadclolli  cdiil ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  jmint^d  lioat. 

"  I'd  dresH  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have   anew   toy  each 
day. 

"And   I'd  f'M'd   llie  liungry    and  clothe  llio 

j)Oor, 
And  all  nliould  1)1<'^«  me  wlm  left  our  <]iinr." 

Tlio  Jud;^e  lookf'l  bai  k  U'^  lie  climbi''!  tint  liill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  Ktill. 


"  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  »ir 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay : 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs^ 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endle.ss  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle,  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health,  and  quiet,  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters,  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon. 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune; 

And  the  young  girl  mus(!d  beside  the  well, 
Till  tiie  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Wlio  live<l  for  fashion,  as  ht;  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  heartli's  bright  glow. 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go  : 

And  sweet  Maud  MuUer's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft  wlien  the  wino  in  Ins  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead; 

And  close<l  liis  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clovcr-blooiiis. 

And    (he   proud    man   sii^hed,    with    a   secret 

]>ain, 
"  ,\h,  lliat   I  weir?  frei!  again  ! 

"  l''re('  as  when  I  rodi;  (bat  day. 

Where  (he  liarefoot  maiden  raked   her  hay." 

She  wed<li'd  a  man  unlearned  and  poor. 
And  many  ciul'lrcii  playei]  loimil   Imt  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  c:hilil  hirth  jiain, 
Left  their  traces  on  hearL  and  brain. 


KATE  KETCHEM. 


461 


And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new  mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall. 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein, 

And  gazing  down  with  timid  grace. 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned. 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned  ; 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 


A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw. 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  he  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

God  pity  them  both  !  and  pity  us  all. 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall ; 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen. 

The  saddest  are  the.se:  "  Itmighthave  beeaJ' 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away  ! 


KATE  KETCHEM. 


FHCEBE    GARY. 


ATE  Ketchem,  on  a  winter's  night, 
Went  to  a  party,  dressed  in  white. 

Her  chignon  in  a  net  of  gold 

Was  about  as  large  as  they  ever  sold. 

Gayly  she  went  because  her  "  pap  " 
Was  supposed  to  be  a  rich  old  chap. 

But  when  by  chance  her  glances  fell 
On  a  friend  who  had  lately  married  well. 

Her  spirits  sunk,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast — 

A  wish  she  wouldn't  have  had  made  known. 
To  have  an  establishment  of  her  own. 

Tom  Fudge  came  slowly  through  the  throng. 
With  chestnut  hair,  worn  pretty  long. 

He  saw  Kate  Ketchem  in  the  crowd, 
And,   knowing   her    slightly,    stopped    and 
bowed. 

Then  asked  her  to  give  him  a  single  flower. 
Saying  he'd  think  it  a  priceless  dower. 


Out  from  those  with  which  she  was  decked 
She  took  the  poorest  she  could  select, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
To  call  attention  to  her  gown. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Fudge,  and  he  thought  how 

dear 
Flowers  must  be  at  this  time  of  year. 

Then  several  charming  remarks  he  made, 
Asked  if  she  sang,  or  danced,  or  played  ; 

And  being  exhausted,  inquired  whether 
She   thought   it   was   going   to   be   pleasaat 
weatluT. 

And  Kate  displayed  her  jewelry. 
And  dropped  her  lashes  becomingly; 

And  listened  with  no  attempt  to  disguisa 
The  admiration  in  her  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  has  nothing  to  say, 
He  turned  around  and  walked  a  way. 


^62 


KATE  KETCHEM. 


Kate  Ketchem  smiled,  and  said  "  You  bet 
I'll  catch  that  Fudge  and  his  money  yet. 

"  He's  rich  enough  to  keep  me  in  clothes, 
And  I  think  I  could  manage  him  if  I  chose. 

"  He  could  aid  my  father  as  well  as  not. 
And  buy  my  brother  a  splendid  yacht. 

"  My  mother  for  money  should  never  fret, 
And  all  that  it  cried  for  the  baby  sliould  get ; 

"  And  after  that,  with  what  he  could  spare, 
I'd  make  a  show  at  a  charity  fair." 

Tom  Fudge  looked  back  as  he  crossed  the  sill, 
And  saw  Kate  Ketchem  standing  still. 

"  A  girl  more  suited  to  my  mind 
It  isn't  an  easj'  thing  to  find  ; 

"  And  every  thing  that  she  has  to  wear  | 

Proves  her  as  rich  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  that  I  to-day 
Had  the  old  man's  cash  my  debts  to  pay  ; 

"  No  creditors  with  a  long  account. 

No  tradesmen  waiting  'that  little  amount;' 

"  But  all  my  scores  paid  up  when  due 
By  a  father  as  rich  as  any  Jew  !" 

But  he  thought  of  her  brother,  not  worth  a 

straw. 
And  her  mother,  that  would  be  his,  in  law  ; 

iSo,  undecided,  he  walked  along. 

And  Kate  was  left  alone  in  the  throng. 

But  a  lawyer  smiled,   whom   he  souglit  by 

stealth. 
To  ascertain  old  Ketchern's  w<alth  ; 

And  as  for  Kab-,  she  schemed  and  jilaiined 
Till  one  of  the  dancers  claimed  her  haiwl. 

lie  married  lier  for  her  father's  rash — 
She  married  him  to  rut  a  dash. 

But  as  to  jiaying  his  delits,  do  ym  kuuw 
Tlie  father  couldn't  see  it  ho  ; 


And  at  hints  for  help  Kate's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise 

And  when  Tom  thought  of  the  way  he  had 

wed. 
He  longed  for  a  single  life  instead, 

And  closed  his  eyes  in  a  sulky  mood. 
Regretting  the  days  of  his  bachelorhood  ; 

And  said  in  a  sort  of  reckless  vein, 
"  I'd  like  to  see  her  catch  me  again, 

"  If  I  were  free  as  on  that  night 

I  saw  Kate  Ketchem  dressed  in  white  !" 

She  wedded  him  to  be  rich  and  gay  ; 
But  husband  and  children  didn't  pay. 

He  wasn't  the  prize  she  hoped  to  draw, 
And  wouldn't  live  with  his  mother-in-law. 

And  oft  when  she  had  to  coax  and  pout 
In  order  to  get  him  to  take  her  out. 

She  thought  how  very  attentive  and  bright 
He  seemed  at  the  party  that  winter's  night. 

Of  his  laugh,  as  soft  as  a  breeze  of  the  south, 
('Twas  now  on  the  other  side  of  his  mouth:) 

How  he  praised  her  dross  and  gems  in  his 

talk. 
As  he  took  a  carefiil  account  of  stock. 

Sometimes  .';he  had'd  tiie  very  walls — 
Hated  her  friends,  her  dinmrs,  and  calls: 

Till  her  weak  afToctions,  to  hatred  turned, 
Like  a  dying  tallow  candle  burned. 

And  for  him  who  sat  (iiere,  herpeace  to  mar 
Smoking  his  everlasting  segar — 

III!  wasn't  till!  man  she  thought  sho  saw, 
And  gri(!f  was  duty,  and  liali-  was  l:iw. 

So  she  took  up  her  iiurdcn  witii  a  groan. 
Saying  only,  "  1  niiglit  liave  known'" 

Aliw  for  Kate!  and  alas  for  I'lidgi' ! 
Thongli  I  do  not  owe  thfui  any  grudge; 


THE  INDIAN  TO  THE  SETTLER. 


4G:^ 


A.nd  alas  icr  any  that  find  to  their  shame 
That  two  can  play  at  their  little  game  ! 

For  of  all  hard  things  to  bear  and  grin, 
The  hardest  is  knowing  you're  taken  in. 


Ah  well !  as  a  general  thing  we  fret 
About  the  one  we  didn't  get ; 

But  I  think  we  netdn't  make  a  fuss 
If  the  one  we  don't  want  didn't  get  U8. 


THE  2IERR  Y  LARK. 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY. 


E^i^HE  merry,  merry  lark   was  up  and  '  Now  the  hare  is  snared  and  dead  beside  the 

snow-vard, 


And  the  hare  was  out  and  feeding 
on  the  lea. 
And  the  merrj^   merry  bells   below 
were  ringing. 


And   the   lark  beside   the   dreary  wintei 
sea, 
And  my  baby  in  his  cradle  in  the  church 
yard 


When  my  child's  laugh  rang  through  me.  Waiteth  there  until  the  bells  bring  me. 


THE  INDIAN  TO  THE  SETTLER. 


EDWARD   EVERETT. 


lilMHINK  of  the  country  for  which  the  Indians  fought !  Who  can 
^!^  blame  them  ?  As  Philip  looked  down  from  his  seat  on  Mount 
^^^"^     Hope,  that  glorious  eminence,  that 


4/\4  THE  INDIAN  TO  THE  SETTLER. 


-"  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 


Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind, 
Or  where  the  gorgeous  East,  with  richest  hand, 
Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and  gold," — 

cis  he  looked  down,  and  beheld  the  lovely  scene  which  spread  beneath,  at  a 
summer  sunset,  the  distant  hill-tops  glittering  as  with  fire,  the  slanting 
beams  streaming  across  the  waters,  the  broad  plains,  the  island  groups, 
the  majestic  forest, — could  he  be  blamed,  if  his  heart  burned  within  him, 
as  he  beheld  it  all  passing,  by  no  tardy  process  from  beneath  his  control, 
into  the  hands  of  the  stranger  ? 

As  the  river  chieftains — the  lords  of  the  waterfalls  and  the  mountains 
— ranged  this  lovely  valley,  can  it  be  wondered  at  if  they  beheld  with 
bitterness  the  forest  disappearing  beneath  the  settler's  axe — the  fishing- 
place  disturbed  by  his  saw-mills  ?  Can  we  not  fancy  the  feelings  with 
which  some  strong-minded  savage,  the  chief  of  the  Pocomtuck  Indians, 
who  should  have  ascended  the  summit  of  the  Sugar-loaf  Mountain  (rising 
as  it  does  before  us,  at  this  moment,  in  all  its  loveliness  and  grandeur,) — 
in  company  with  a  friendly  settler — contemplating  the  progress  already 
made  by  the  white  man,  and  marking  the  gigantic  strides  with  which  he 
was  advancing  into  the  wilderness,  should  fold  his  arms  and  say,  "  White 
man,  there  is  eternal  war  between  me  and  thee!  I  quit  not  the  land  of 
my  fathers,  but  with  my  life.  In  those  woods,  where  I  bent  my  youthful 
bow,  I  will  still  hunt  the  deer;  over  yonder  waters  I  will  still  glide  unre- 
strained, in  my  bark  canoe.  By  those  dashing  w-aterfalls  I  will  still  lay 
up  my  winter's  store  of  food;  on  these  fertile  meadows  I  will  still  plant 
my  corn. 

"  Stranger,  the  land  is  mine !  I  understand  not  these  paper- 
rights.  I  gave  not  my  consent,  when,  as  thou  say  est,  these  broad  regions 
were  purchased,  for  a  few  baubles,  of  my  fathers.  They  could  sell  what 
was  theirs;  they  could  sell  no  more.  How  could  my  father  sell  that  which 
the  Great  Spirit  sent  me  into  the  world  to  live  upon  ?  They  know  not 
what  they  did. 

"The  stranger  came,  a  timid  suppliant, — few  and  feeble,  and  asked  to 
lie  down  on  the  rod  man's  bear-skin,  and  warm  himself  at  the  rod  man's 
fire,  and  have  a  little  piece  of  land  to  raise  corn  for  liis  women  and  cliild- 
ren;  and  now  he  is  become  strong,  and  mighty,  and  bold,  and  spreads  out 
his  parchments  over  the  whole,  and  says,  '  It  is  mine.' 

"  Stranger  I  there  is  not  room  for  us  both.  The  Great  Spirit  has  not 
made  us  to  live  t<^jgether.  Thoro  is  jioison  in  tho  white  man's  cup;  the 
white  man's  dog  barks  at   the  rod  man's  heels.     If  I  should  loavo  the  land 


THE  INDIAN  TO  THE  SETTLER. 


465 


of  my  fathers,  whither  shall  I  fly?  Shall  T  go  to  the  south,  and  dwell 
among  the  graves  of  the  Pequots?  Shall  I  wander  to  the  west,  the  fierce 
Mohawk — the  man-eater, — is  my  foe.  Shall  I  fly  to  the  east,  the  great 
water  is  before  mo.  No,  stranger;  here  I  have  lived,  and  here  will  I  die; 
and  if  here  thou  abidest,  there  is  eternal  war  between  me  and  thee. 


INNOVATIONS    OF    THE    ^VniTE    MAN. 


"  Thou  hast  taught  me  thy  arts  of  destruction ;  for  that  alone  I  thank 
thee.  And  now  take  heed  to  thy  steps ;  the  red  man  is  thy  foe.  When 
thou  goest  forth  by  day,  my  bullet  shall  whistle  past  thee;  when  thou  liest 
down  by  night,  my  knife  is  at  thy  throat.  The  noonday  sun  shall  not  dis- 
cover thine  enemy,  and  the  darkness  of  midnight  shall  not  protect  thy  rest. 
Thou  shalt  plant  in  terror,  and  I  will  reap  in  blood;  thou  shalt  sow  the 
earth  with  corn,  and  I  will  strew  it  with  ashes;  thou  shalt  go  forth  with 
the  sickle,  and  I  will  follow  after  with  the  scalping-knife ;  thou  shalt  build, 


466 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 


and  I  will  burn, — till  the  white  man  or  the  Indian  perish  from  the  la;\d. 
Go  thy  way  for  this  time  in  safety, — but  remember,  stranger,  there  is 
eternal  war  between  me  and  thee.'' 


JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO. 


ROBERT    BURNS. 


OHN  ANDERSON,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw  ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither ; 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither. 
Nov/  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand-in-hand  we'll  go : 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 


FRANCIS  SCOTT   KEY. 


^^H!  say,  can   you  see,  by  the  dawn's  j  Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's 
aTfji  early  light,  I  first  beam, 

t^       What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  tb".  '   In   full   glory  reflected   now  shines   on  the 
^•'■^  twilight's  last  gleaming  '' 

<J>       Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars 

J  through  the  perilous  fight, 

O'er  the  rampart,  wo  watched  were 
so  gallantly  streaming : 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  burst- 
ing in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag 
was  still  there ; 
Ob  !  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner 

yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  liome  of 
the  brave? 


Oa  th«.'  hhore,  dimly  seen   througli   thr;   mjsts 
of  the  deep. 
Where   the   foe's   liaughty    host  in   dread 
Bilcnce  reposes. 
What  is  that  wliich  the  breeze,  o'er  the  tow- 
ering steep, 
As    it    fitfully    hiowH,    half  ccncfalH,  lialf 
discloHoa  ? 


stream ; 
'Tis   the  star-spangled   banner !    oh,  long 

may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of 

the  brave ! 

And  where  is  that  band,  who  so  vauntingly 
swore 
Tbat   the  havoc    of  war  and  the  battle's 
confusion 
A  home   and   a  country  should  leave  us  no 
more  ? 
Their    blood    ha.s    WiV«hed    out    tlioir    foul 
footstofis'  jioUution. 
No    refuge    couM    save    the    iiiroliiig     ami 

slave. 
From  the  terror  of  death  and   thr   gluom  of 
the  grave  ; 
And  the  star-8paiigl(Ml  l)anniT  in    triiunph 

nhall  wave 
O'er  tlie  land  of  (lie  free  and    I  In'  iiorn*  of 
Vhc  brave  I 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 


467 


Oh!   thus   be   it   ever,  when   freemen   shall 
stand 
Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's 
desolation ; 
Blest  with  victory  anJ  peace,  may  the  heav- 
en-rescued land 
Praise  the  power  that  has  made  and  pre- 
served us  a  nation. 


Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  ifl 

just, 
And  this  be  our  motto,    "  In    God  is  oui 
trust." 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph 

shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  Lome  ol 
the  brave ! 


THE  AMEBIC  AN  FLAG. 


JOSEPH    RODMAN 

•IIEI^   Freedom,  from  her  mountain 
height. 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 

(She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there  ! 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies. 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light, 
Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun, 
She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land  ! 


Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud ! 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form. 
To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud. 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven. 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, — 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke. 

And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar. 

Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 
The  harbingers  of  victory ! 

Flag  of  the  brave !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high  ! 
When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  cfomes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet. 


DRAKE. 

Each  soldier's  eye  ehall  brightly  tur&, 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn. 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance. 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud. 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall. 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow. 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 


Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  'orave; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale. 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail. 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack. 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  the«, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home. 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given. 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome. 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven ' 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet, 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  befort 
us. 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet. 

And    Freedom's    banner  streaming    o'» 


46S 


THE  DJINNS. 


THE  DJINNS. 


VICTOR    HUGO. 


^()WX,  tower, 
gMffe  Shure,  deep, 
^1^  Where  lower 
^^^^-^  Clouds  steep; 
^        Waves  gray 
J.         Where  play 
T        Winds  gay— 
«         All  asleep. 
Hark  a  sonnd, 
Far  and  slight. 
Breathes  around 
On  the  night — 
High  and  higher, 
Nigh  and  nigher. 
Like  a  fire 
Roaring  bright. 
New  on  it  is  sweeping 
With  rattling  beat 
Like  dwarf  imp  leaping 
In  gallop  fleet ; 
He  flies,  he  prances, 
In  frolic  fancies — 
On  wave  crest  dances 
With  pattering  feet. 
Hark,  the  rising  swell, 
With  each  nearer  burst ! 
Like  the  toll  of  bell 
Of  a  convent  cursed; 
Like  the  billowy  roar 
On  a  storm-lashed  shore — 
Now  hushed,  now  once  more 
Maddening  to  its  worst, 
Oh  God  !  the  deadly  sound 
Of  the  djinns'  fearful  cry  ! 
Quick,  'neath  the  spiral  round 
Of  the  deep  staircase,  fly  ! 
See,  our  lamplight  fa<lc  I 
And  of  the  bulu.stnyle 
Mounts,  uiiiuuta  the  circling  shade 
I'p  to  the  ceiling  high  I 
Tie  the  djinus'  wild  streaming  swarm 
Whistlirip  in  their  tempest  flight ; 
Snafi  ill.-  ti'.ll  yews  'neath  the  storm. 
Like  a  pim-flanie  crai:kling  briglit  ; 
Swift  and  heavy,  low,  tlieir  crowil 
Through  the  li.-iv>;im  niHhiiig  loud  I — 
Likf  li  lurid  tiiu.ider  cloud 
With  llH  hold  of  flory  night: 
n«  !  they  are  on  us,  close  without ! 
Shut  tight  the  Hhcltcr  where  we  lie ! 
With  hideous  din  the  moiister  rout, 
Dragon  and  vampire,  till  the  hky  ! 
Tho  IfKineiie.l  rafter  overhead 
Trembl.-H  and  l.endn  like  fiuiv<,ring  reod ; 
HhakcH  the  old  door  with  shuddering  dread, 
As  from  lis  ru-ty  hinge  'twould  fly  1 
Wild  cries  of  hell  !   voice*  that  howl  and  shriek  I 
Tho  horri'l  swarm  Ixforo  the  tenipenl  loused 
O  heaven  '— desrendu  my  lonely  r<K.f  to  Keek  ; 
Bends  the  strong  wall  bouealh   the  furious  host;— 


Totters  the   hoiwe.   as    though,   like  dry    leaf    short 
From  autumn  bough  and  on  mad  blast  borne  I 
Up  from  its  deep  foundations  it  were  torn 
To  join  the  stormy  whirl.    Ah  !  all  is  lost ! 
Oh  prophet !  if  thy  hand  but  now 
Save  from  these  foul  and  hellish  things, 
A  pilgrim  at  thy  shrine  I'll  bow. 
Laden  with  pious  oft'erings. 
Bid  their  hot  breath  its  fiery  ruin 
Stream  on  my  faithful  door  in  vain, 
Vainly  upon  my  blackened  pane 
Grate  the  tierce  claws  of  their  dark  wings! 
Xhey  have  passed.' — and  their  wild  legion 
Cease  to  thunder  at  my  door ; 
Fleeting  tlirough  night's  rayless  region, 
Hither  they  return  no  more. 
Clanking  chains  and  sounds  of  woe 
Fill  the  forests  as  they  g,i ; 
And  the  tall  oaks  cower  low, 
Bent  their  flaming  flight  before. 
On  !  on  !  the  storm  of  wings 
Bears  far  the  fiery  fear, 
Till  scarce  the  breeze  now  brings 
Dim  murmurings  to  the  ear  ; 
Like  locusts  humming  hail. 
Or  thrash  of  tiny  flail 
Plied  by  the  pattering  hail 
On  some  old  roof-tree  near. 
Fainter  now  are  borne 
Fitful  murmurings  still 
\%,  when  Arab  horn 
Swells  its  magic  peal. 
Shoreward  o'er  the  deep 
Fairy  voices  sweep, 
And  the  infant's  sleep 
Golden  visions  fill. 

Kacli  deadly  djinn, 
Dark  child  of  fright. 
Of  death  and  sin, 
Speeds  tho  wild  flight. 
Hark,  tho  dull  moan  1 
Like  the  deep  tone 
Of  Ocean's  groan, 
Afar  by  night ! 

More  and  more 
Fades  it  now, 
Ah  on  shorii 
Uipliles  flow- 
As  the  plaint, 
Far  anil  faint. 
Of  a  saint. 
Murmured  low. 
Mark  !  hist  I 
Around 
I  list  I 
The  boiindl 
of  Hpacii 
All  trace 
Kfface 
Of  Huund 


^K^iii^ 


TUK   CHEMIST, 


THE  CHEMIST  TO  HIS  LOVE. 


469 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 


y^ 


!  EN,   marshalled    on    the    nightly 
plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the 


One  star  alone  of  all  the  train 
Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering 
eye. 
Hark  !  hark  !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks 

From  every  host,  from  every  gem  ; 
But  one  alone  a  Saviour  speaks, 
It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 


Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud,  the  night  was  dark, 


The  ocean  yawned — and  rudelj'  blowed 
The  wind  that  tossed  my  foundering  bark 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze. 
Death-struck — I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 

When  suddenly  a  star  arose, 
It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

It  was  ray  guide,  ni}'  light,  my  all ; 

It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease ;  .  ' 
And  through  the, storm  and  danger's  tlrtall. 

It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 
Now  safely  moored — my  perils  o'er, 

I'll  sing,  first  in-night's  diadem. 
Forever  and  for  jevermore. 

The  Star !— the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 


THE  CHEMIST  TO  HIS  LOVE. 


LOVE  thee,  Marj-,  and  thou  lovest  me,- 
Our  mutual  flame  is  like  the  affinity 
That  doth  exist  between   two  simple 
bodies  : 

J       I  am  Potassium  to  thine  Oxygen. 
'T  is  little  that  the  holy  marriage  vow 
Shall  shortly  make  us  one.   That  unity 
Is,  after  all,  but  metaphysical. 
0,  would  that  I,  my  Mary,  were  an  acid, 
A  living  acid  ;  thou  an  alkali 
32 


Endowed  with  human  sense,   that  brougb4 

together, 
We  might  both  coalesce  into  one  salt, 
One  homogeneous  crystal.     0  that  thou 
Wert  Carbon,  and  myself  were  Hj'^drogen ! 
We  would  unite  to  form  defiant  gas, 
Or  common  coal,  or  naphtha.    Would  to  Hea- 
ven 
That  I  were     Phosphorus,  and    thou    wert 
Lime, 


470  SIGHTS  FROM  A  STEEPLE. 

And  we  of  Lime  composed  a  Phosphuret !         j  And  thus  our  several  natures  sweetly  blent, 
I'd  be  content  to  be  Sulphuric  Acid,  [  We'd  live  and  love  together,  until  death 

So  that  thou  might  be  Soda  ;  in  that  case 
We  should  be  Glauber's  salt.     Wert  thou 

Magnesia 
Instead,  we'd  form  the  salt  that's  named  from 

Epsom. 
Couldst  thou  Potassa  be,  I  Aquafortis, 
Our  happy  union    should    that    compound 

form, 
Nitrate  of  Potash, — otherwise  Saltpetre. 


Should  decompose  the  fleshy  tertium  quid, 
Leaving  our  souls  to  all  eternity 
Amalgamated.     Sweet,  thy  name  is  Briggs 
And    mine   is   Johnson.     Wherefore   shouUl 

not  we 
Agree  to  form  a  Johnsonate  of  Briggs? 
We  will.     The  day,  the  happy  day  is  nigh, 
When  Johnson  shall  with  beauteous  Brigge 

combine. 


SIGHTS  FROM  A  STEEPLE. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


)W  various  are  the  situations  of  the  people  covered  by  the  roofe 
beneath  me,  and  how  diversified  are  the  events  at  this  moment 
■^'^ '  '  befalling  them!  The  new-born,  the  aged,  the  dying,  the  strong  in 
c :  Ufe,  and  the  recent  dead,  are  in  the  chambers  of  these  many  man- 

\ ;  sions.     The  full  of  hope,  the  happy,  the  miserable,  and  the  desper- 

J  ate,  dwell  together  within  the  circle  of  my  glance.     In  some  of  the 

houses  over  which  my  eyes  roam  so  coldly,  guilt  is  entering  into  hearts 
that  are  still  tenanted  by  a  debased  and  trodden  virtue — guilt  is  on  the 
very  edge  of  commission,  and  the  impending  deed  might  be  averted ;  guilt 
is  done,  and  the  criminal  wonders  if  it  be  irrevocable.  There  are  broad 
thoughts  struggling  in  my  mind,  and,  were  I  able  to  give  them  distinct- 
ness, they  would  make  their  way  in  eloquence.  Lo!  the  rain-drops  are 
descending. 

The  clouds,  within  a  little  time,  have  gathered  over  all  the  sky,  hang- 
ing heavily,  as  if  about  to  drop  in  one  unbroken  mass  upon  the  earth.  At 
intervals  the  lightning  flashes  from  their  brooding  hearts,  quivers,  dis- 
appears, and  then  comes  th(i  thunder,  travelling  slowly  after  its  twin-born 
flame.  A  strong  wind  has  sprung  up,  howls  through  the  darkened  streets, 
and  raises  the  dust  in  dense  bodies,  to  rebel  against  the  approaching 
storm.  All  people  hurry  homeward — all  that  have  a  home;  while  a  few 
lounge  by  the  corners,  or  trudge  on  desperately,  at  their  leisure. 

And  now  the  storm  lots  loose  its  fury.  In  every  dwelling  I  perceive 
the  faces  of  the  chambermaids  as  they  shut  down  the  windows,  excluding 
the  impetuous  shower,  and  shrinking  away  from  the  quick,  ficiy  glare.  The 
large  drops  descend  with   force  upon  the  slated  roofs,  and  rise  again  in 


WHEN  SPARROWS  BUILD. 


471 


smoke.  There  is  a  rush  ;uid  roar,  as  of  a  river  through  the  air,  and  muddy 
streams  bubble  inajesticaliy  along  the  pavement,  whirl  their  dusky  foam 
into  the  kennel,  and  disappear  beneath  iron  grates.  Thus  did  Arethusa 
sink.  I  love  not  ray  station  here  aloft,  in  the  midst  of  the  tumult  which  I 
am  powerless  to  direct  or  quell,  with  the  blue  lightning  wrinkling  on  my 
brow,  and  the  thunder  muttering  its  first  awful  syllables  in  my  ear.  I  will 
descend.  Yet  let  me  give  another  glance  to  the  sea,  where  the  foam  breaks 
in  long  white  lines  upon  a  broad  expanse  of  blackness,  or  boils  up  in  far 
distant  points,  like  snowy-mountain-tops  in  the  eddies  of  a  flood;  and  let 
me  look  once  more  at  the  green  plain,  and  little  hills  of  the  country,  over 
which  the  giant  of  the  storm  is  riding  in  robes  of  mist,  and  at  the  town, 
whose  obscured  and  desolate  streets  might  beseem  a  city  of  the  dead ;  and 
turning  a  single  moment  to  the  sky,  now  gloomy  as  an  author's  prospects, 
I  prepare  to  resume  my  station  on  lower  earth.  But  stay !  A  little  speck 
of  azure  has  widened  in  the  western  heavens;  the  sunbeams  find  a  passage, 
and  go  rejoicing  through  the  tempest;  and  on  yonder  darkest  cloud,  born, 
like  hallowed  hopes,  of  the  glory  of  another  world,  and  the  trouble  and 
tears  of  this,  brightens  forth  the  Rainbow  ! 


WHEN  SPARROWS  BUILD. 


JEAN    INGELOW^ 


rAmjpHEN  sparrows  build,  and  the  leaves 
break  forth, 
My  old  sorrow  wakes  and  crie^5. 
For  I  know  there  is  dawn  in  the  far, 
far  north, 
And  a  scarlet  sun.doth  rise ; 
Like  a  scarlet  fleece  the  snow-field  spreads, 

And  the  icy  fount  runs  free  ; 
And  the  bergs  begin  to  bow  their  heads, 
And  plunge  and  sail  in  the  sea. 

0,  my  lost  love,  and  my  own,  own  love. 

And  my  love  that  loved  me  so ! 
Is  there  never  a  chink  in  the  world  above 

Where  they  listen  for  words  from  below  ? 
Nay,  I  spoke  once,  and  I  grieved  thee  sore ; 

I  remembered  all  that  I  said  ; 
And  now  thou  wilt  hear  me  no  more — no  more 

Till  'he  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

Thou  didst  set  thy  foot  on  the  ship,  and  sail 
To  the  ice-fields  and  the  snow  ; 


Thou  wert  sad,  for  thy  love  did  not  avail, 


i       And  the  end  I  could  not  know. 


472 


KIT  CARSON'S  KIDE. 


How  could  I  tell  I  shoul'l  love  thee  to-day,  We   shall   stand   no  more   by  the   seething 

Whom  that  day  I  held  not  dear  ?  main 

How  could  I  tell  I  should  love  thee  away  While  the  dark  wrack  drives  o'erhead ; 

When  I  did  not  love  thee  anear  ?  We  shall  part  no  more  in  the  wind  and  rain 

Where  thy  last  farewell  was  said  ; 

We  shall  walk  no  more  through  the  sodden  i  But  perhaps  I  shall  meet  thee  and  know  thee 

plain,  again 

With  the  faded  bents  o'erspread ;                   I  When  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 


KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE. 


JOAQUIN    MILLER. 


^ffe 


3^"SUX  .'     Now    you   bet   you ;    I  rather  |  And  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you 

kJ^J^            guess  so.  j               must  ride, 

ri"    ^r    But  he's  blind  as  a  badger.     Whoa,  For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire, 

Pach^,  boy,  whoa.  '  And  feet  of  wild  horses,  hard  flying  before 

tei-             No,  you  wouldn't  think  so  to  look  I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  hard  on  the  shore ; 

at  his  eyes,  ,  While  the  bufi"alo  come  like  the  surge  of  the 

i      But  he  is  badger  blind,  and  it  happened  sea, 


this  wise ; — 

We  lay  low  in  the  grass  on  the  broad  plain 

levels, 
Old  Revels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brow*  bride. 
"  Forty  full  rniles  if  a  foot  to  ride, 
Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 
Of  red  Camanches  are  hot  on  the  track 


Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on  us 

three 
As  a  hurricane  comes,  crushing  palms  in  hi3 

ire." 

We  drew  in  the  lassos,  seized  saddle  and  rein, 
Threw  them  on,  sinched   them  on,  sinched 
them  over  again, 


When  once  they  strike  it.     Let  the  sun  go  j  And  again   drew  the  girth,  cast   aside  the 

down  macheer, 

Soon.very  soon,"  muttered  bearded  old  Revels  |  Cut  away  tapidaros,  loosed  the  sash  from  its 
A.s  he  peered  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his  fold. 

Cast  aside  the  catenas  red  and  spangled  with 

gold. 
And  gold-mounted   Colt's,  true  companions 

for  years, 
Cast  the  red  silk  scrapes  to  the  wind  in  a  breath 
And  so  bared  to  the  skin  sprang  all  haste  to 
the  liorse. 


back. 
Holding  fast  to  his  lasso  ;  then  he  jerked  at 

his  steed. 
And  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  glanced  swiftly 

around. 
And  then  dropped,  as  if  shot,  with  his  ear  to 

tlic  ground, — 


Then  again  to  his  feet  and  to  me,  to  my  bride,  , 

Whilf  his  '-yes  were  like  fire,  his  face  like  a  Not  a  word,  not  a  wail  from  a  liji  was  lot  fall. 

nhroud,  Not  a  kiss  from  my  bride,  not  a  lodk  or  low 

His  form  lik';  a  king,  and  his  beard  like  a  call 

cloud,  f>f    lovo-noto    or    courage,    but    on   o'er    the 

.\nd  hiH   voire  loud   and   ulirill,  as  if  blown  plain 

from  a  reed, —  So  steady  and  ntili,  leaning  low  to  tln'  niano, 

'  Pull,  pull  in  your  liiHHOs,  and  bridlf  to  steed.  With  the  hetl  to  the   liank   and  tin'  liand  to 

And  Ki.ecl    if  fvfr  for  life  you  would  speed;  i               the  rein, 


KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE. 


473 


Rode   we  on,  rode  we  three,  rode  we  gray 

nose  and  nose. 
Reaching  long,  breathing  loud,  like  a  creviced 

wind  blows, 
Yet  we  spoke  not  a  whisper,  we  breathed  not 

a  prayer. 
There  was  work  to  be  done,  there  was  death 

in  the  air. 
And  the  chance  was  as  one  to  a  thousand  for 

all. 

Gray   nose   to   gray   nose  and  each   steady 

mustang 
Stretched  neck  and  stretched  nerve  till  the 

hollow  earth  rang 
And  the  foam  from  the  flank  and  the  croup 

and  the  neck 
Flew  around  like  the  spray  on  a  storm-driven 

deck. 
Twenty  miles !  thirty  miles  I — a  dim  distant 

speck — 
Then  a  long  reaching  line  and  the  Brazos  in 

sight. 
And   I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of  de- 

light. 
I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  looked  to  my  right, 
But    Revels    was   gone ;     I  glanced  by  my 

shoulder 
And  saw  his  horse  stagger ;  I  saw  his  head 

drooping 
Hard  on  his  breast,   and    his  naked  breast 

stooping 
Low  down  to  the  mane  as  so  swifter   and 

bolder 
Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 
To  right  and  to  left  the  black  bu9"alo  came. 
In  miles  and  in  millions,  rolling  on  in  despair. 
With  their  beards  to  the  dust  and  black  tails 

in  the  air. 

As  a  terrible  surf  on  a  red  sea  of  flame 
Rushing  on  in  the  rear,  reaching  high,  reach- 
ing higher. 
And  he  rode  neck  to  neck  to  a  bufi'alo  bull. 
The  monarch  of  millions,  with  shaggy  mane 

full 
Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with  desire 
Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bellowings  loud 
And  unearthly   and  up  through  its  lowering 
cloud 


Came  the  flash  of  his  eyes  like  a  half-hidden 

fire. 
While  his  keen  crooked  horns  through  the 

storm  of  his  mane 
Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again  ; 
And  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire  licked 

through. 
And  he  fell  and  was  lost,  as  wa  rode  two  and 

two. 

I  looked  to  my  left  then,  and  nose,  neck,  and 

shoulder 
Sank   slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back  to   my 

thighs ; 
And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of 

her  hair 
Did  beam  full   in  mine  her  two  marvelous 

eyes 
With  a  longing  and  love,  yet  look  of  despair, 
And  a  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke  fold 

her, 
And  flames  reaching  far  for  her  glorious  hair. 
Her  sinking  steed  faltered,  his  eager  ears  fell 
To  and  fro  and  unsteady,  and  all  the  neck's 

swell 
Did  subside  and  recede,  and  the  nerves  fell  as 

dead. 
Then  she  saw  that  my  own  steed  still  lorded 

his  head 
With  a  look  of  delight,  for  this  Pach^,  you  see, 
Was    her    father's,  and   once   at  the  South 

Santafee 
Had  won  a  whole  herd,  sweeping  everything 

down 
In  a  race  where  the  world  came  to  run  for 

the  crown ; 
And  so  when  I  won  the  true  heart  of  my 

bride, — 
My  neighbor's  and  deadliest  enemy's  child, 
And  child   of  the  kingly  war-chief   of  his 

tribe, — 
She  brought  me  this  steed  to  the  border  the 

night 
She  met  Revels  and  me  in  her  perilous  flight. 
From   the   lodge  of  the  chief  to  the  north 

Brazos  side ; 
And  said,  so  half  guessing  of  ill  as  she  smiled, 
As  if  jesting,  that  I,  and  I  only,  should  ride 
The  fleet-footed  Pach^,  so  if  kin  should  pursu* 
I  should  surely  escape  without  other  ado 


474 


THE  ORGAN  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


Than  to   ride,  without  blood,   to  the  north 

Brazos  side, 
And  await  her, — and  wait  till  the  next  hollow 

moon 
Hung  her  horn  in  the  palms,  when  surely 

and  soon 
And  swift  she  would  join  me,  and  all  would 

be  well 
Without  bloodshed  or  word.     And  now  as 

she  fell 
From  the  front,  and  went  down  in  the  ocean 

of  fire, 
The  last  that  I  saw  was  a  look  of  delight 
That  I  should  escape, — a  love, — a  desire, — 
Yet  never  a  word,  not  a  look  of  appeal, — 
Lest  I  should  reach  hand,  should  stay  hand 

or  stay  heel 
One  instant  for  her  in  my  terrible  flight. 

Ther,  icie  rushing  of  fire  rose  around  me  and 
Auder, 


And  the  howling  of  beasts  like  the  sound  oi 

thunder, — 
Beasts  burning  and  blind  and  forced  onward 

and  over. 
As  the  passionate  flame  reached  around  iliem 

and  wove  her 
Hands  in  their  hair,  and  kissed  hot  till  they 

died, — 
Till  they  died   with   a  wild  and  a  desolate 

moan. 
As  a  sea  heart-broken  on   the  hard  brown 

stone, 
And  into  the  Brazos  I  rode  all  alone — 
All  alone,  save  only  a  horse  long-iimbed, 
And  blind  and  bare  and  burnt  to  the  skin. 
Then  just  as  the  terrible  sea  came  in 
And  tumbled  its  thousands  hot  into  the  tide, 
Till  the  tide  blocked  up  and  the  swift  stream 

brimmed 
In  eddies,  we  struck  on  the  opposite  side. 


THE  ORGAN  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


?f|TRHE  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from  the  abbey.     I  could 
1^      only  hear,  now  and  then,  the  distant  voice  of  the  priest  repeating 
the  evening  service,  and  the  faint  responses  of  the  choir ;  these. 
J'  [)aused  for  a  time,  and  all  was  hushed.     The  stillness,  the  desertion 

4*  and  obscurity   that  were  gradually  prevailing    around,  gave   a 

J  deeper  and  more  solemn  interest  to  the  place : 

For  in  the  silent  grave  no  conversation. 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 
No  careful  fatiier's  counsel — nothing's  lioard, 
For  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 
Dust,  and  an  fiidless  (larkn<'«s. 

Ruddr'nly  the  notes  of  tiie  d('oj)-laboring  organ  burst  upon  the  oar, 
falling  with  doubled  and  redoubled  intensity,  and  rolling,  as  it  wcu'c,  huge 
billows  of  sound.  How  well  do  their  volume  and  grandeur  Jiccord  with 
this  miglity  building!  With  what  pomp  do  they  swell  tiirough  its  vast 
vaults,  and  breathe  their  awful  harmony  through  these  caves  of  death,  and 
make  the  silent  sepulchre  vocal  I  And  now  they  rise  in  triumph  and 
acclamation,  heaving  higher  and  higher  their  accordant  notes,  and   juling 


I 


■  Jp 


THE  THREE  FATES. 

From  a  celebrated  German  i^aiiiting  by 

Paii.  Thimaxn. 


THE  ORGAN  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


475 


ISTEPJOK    OF    WESTMINSTER    ABBEY. 


sound  on  sound.     And  now  they  pause,  and  the  soft  voices  of  the  choir 
break  out  into  sweet  gushes  of  melody;  they  soar  aloft,  and  warble  along 


476 


QUARREL  OF  BRUTUS  AND  CASSIUS. 


the  roof,  and  seem  to  play  about  these  lofty  vaults  like  the  pure  airs  of 
heaven.  Again  the  pealing  organ  heaves  its  thrilling  thunders,  compress- 
ing air  into  music,  and  rolling  it  forth  upon  the  soul.  What  long-drawn 
cadences !  What  solemn  sweeping  concords  !  It  grows  more  and  more 
dense  and  powerful — it  fills  the  vast  pile,  and  seems  to  jar  the  very  walls — 
the  ear  is  stunned — the  senses  are  overwhelmed.  And  now  it  is  winding 
up  in  full  jubilee — it  is  rising  from  the  earth  to  heaven — the  very  soul 
seems  rapt  away  and  floated  upwards  on  this  swelling  tide  of  harmony  ! 

I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie  which  a  strain  of  music 
is  apt  sometimes  to  inspire  :  the  shadows  of  evening  were  gradually  thick- 
ening round  me ;  the  monuments  began  to  cast  deeper  and  deeper  gloom ; 
and  the  distant  clock  again  gave  token  of  the  slowly  waning  day. 


QUARREL  OF  BRUTUS  AND  CASSIUS. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


Julius  Ccesar. — Act  IV.  Scene  III. 
W^ASSI  US. — That  you  have  wronged  me 
ImSt        doth  appear  in  this  : 

You  have  condemned  and  noted  Lucius 
Pella 
f      For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians, 
Wherein  my  letters,  praying  on  his 

side, 

Because  I  knew  the  man,  were  slighted 
off. 
Brutus. — You  wronged  yourself  to  write 

in  such  a  case. 
(hssiui. — In  such  a  time  as  this,  it  is  not 
meet 
That  every  nice  offence  should  bear  its  com- 
ment. 
Brutus. — Let   me   tell    you,    Caasius,   you 
yourself 
Are  much  condemned   to  liavc  an    it<hing 

palm. 
To  B'^ll  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold 
To  undf;Hervf;rs. 

OiMvu.  -I  an  itching  palm? 
You  know  that  you  are  Brutus  that   speak 

this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your 
last. 


Brutus. — The  name  of  Cassius  honors  this 
corruption. 
And  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  his  head. 

Cassius. — Chastisement ! 

Brutus. — Remember  ^Larcli,  the  Ides  of 
March  remember  I 
Did  not  great  Julius  bleed,  for  justice'  sake  ? 
What  villain  touched  his  body,  that  did  stab. 
And  not  for  justice  ?  What,  shall  one  of  us, 
That   struck   the  foremost   man    of  all  this 

world 
But  for  supporting  robbers  ;  shall  we  now 
Contaniinate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes. 
And   sell   the  mighty    space   of    our    large 

honors. 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus^ 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

rh««ii/s.— Brutus,  hay  not  mo. 
I'll  not  endure  it :  you  forget  yourself, 
To  hedge  mo  in  ;  I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

Brutus. — Go  to  ;  yoii  are  not,  Casiiua. 

Ciiimus. — I  am. 

Brulut. — I  say  you  arc  not. 


QUARREL  OF  BRUTUS  AND  CASSIUS. 


47V 


Oassius. — Urge  me  no  more,  I  shall  forget 
myself; 
Have  mind  upon  your  health,  tempt  me  no 
further. 
Brutus. — Away,  slight  man  ! 
Cassias. — Is't  possible  ? 
Brutus. — Hear  me  for  I  will  speak. 
Must   I  give  way  and   room   to   your  rash 

choler  ? 
Shall  I  be  frighted  wlien  a  madman  stares? 
Cassius. — 0  ye  gods  !  ye  gods  !  must  I  en- 
dure all  this  ? 
Brutus. — All  this  ?     Aye,  more  ;   fret  till 
your  proud  heart  break ; 
Go,  show  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are, 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.     Must  I 

budge  ? 
Must   I   observe   you  ?     Must  I  stand   and 

crouch 
Under  your  testy  humor  ?     By  the  gods, 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen, 
Though  it  do  split   you ;  for  from  this  day 

forth, 
I'll  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laugh- 
ter. 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cassiv^. — Is  it  come  to  this  ? 
Brutus. — You  say  you  are  a  better  soldier : 
Let  it  appear  so  ;  make  your  vaunting  true, 
And  it  shall  please  me  well ;  for  mine  own 

part 
I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 

Cassius. — You  wrong  me  every  way  ;  you 
wrong  me,  Brutus  ; 
I  said  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better  ? 
Did  I  say  "better"  ' 
Brutus. — If  you  did,  I  care  not. 
Cassius. — When  Caesar  liv'd,  he  durst  not 

thus  have  mov'd  me. 
Brutus. — Peace,    peace!     you    durst    not 

thus  have  tempted  him. 
Cassius. — I  durst  not  ? 
Brutus. — No. 

Casdus. — What  ?     Durst  not  tempt  him  ? 
Brutus — For  your  life  you  durst  not. 
Qissius. — Do  not  presume  too  much  upon 
my  love ; 
I  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for. 
Brutus. — You  have  done  that  you  should 
be  sorry  for, 


There  is  no  terror,  Ca«sius,  in  your  threats  ; 
For  I  am  armed  so  strong  in  honesty 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind, 
Which  I  respect  not.     I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied 

me ; 
For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means  ; 
By  heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart, 
And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to 

wring 
From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile 

trash 
By  any  indirection.     I  did  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions. 
Which  you  denied  me.    Was  that  done  like 

Cassius  ? 
Should  I  have  answered  Caius  Cassius  so? 
When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous. 
To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 
Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts  ; 
Dash  him  to  pieces  ! 

Cassius. — I  denied  you  not. 
Brutus. — You  did. 

Cassius. — I  did  not ;  he  was  but  a  fool 
That  brought  my  answer  back.     Brutus  hath 

rived  my  heart. 
A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  infirmities. 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they 

are. 
Brutus. — I  do  not,  till  you  practice  them 

on  me. 
Cassius. — You  love  me  not. 
Brutus. — I  do  not  like  your  faults. 
Cassius. — A  friendly  eye  could  never  see 

such  faults. 
Brutus. — A   flatterer's  would  not,  though 

thej'  do  appear 
As  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

Cassius. — Come,  Antony,  and  young  Octa- 

vius,  come  ! 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius, 
For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world  : 
Hated  by  one  he  loves ;  braved  by  his  brother : 
Checked  like  a  bondman  ;  all  his  faults  ob- 
served, 
Set  in  a  note-book,  learned,  and  conned  by 

rote, 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.     Oh,  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes !     There  is  my 

dagger, 


478 


MRS.  CAUDLE  NEEDS  SPRING  CLOTHING. 


And  here  my  naked  breast ;  within,  a  heart, 
Dearer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold  ; 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  Roman,  take  it  forth ; 
I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  will  give  my  heart: 
Strike  as  thou  didst  at  Caesar ;  for,  I  know. 
When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lov- 

edst  him  better 
Than  ever  thou  lovedst  Cassius. 

Brutus. — Sheathe  your  dagger : 
Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope; 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonor  shall  be  humor. 
0  Cassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb 
That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  fire  : 
WTio,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark, 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 

Cassius. — Hath  Cassius  lived 
To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief  and  blood  ill-tempered,  vexeth 

him? 


Brutus. — When    I    spoke   that  I  was   ih 

tempered,  too. 
Cassius. — Do  you  confess  so  much?     Giv« 

me  your  hand. 
Brutus. — And  my  heart  too.  [Enibracin(f.l 
Cassius. — 0  Brutus ! 
Brutus. — What's  the  matter  ? 
Casius. — Have  you  not  love  enough  to  bear 
with  me, 
"WTien  that  rash  humor  which   my  mother 

gave  me 
Makes  me  forgetful  ? 

Brutus. — Yes,  Cassius;  and,  from  hence- 
forth, 
When  you  are  over-earnest  with  your  Bro 

tus. 
He'll  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave 
you  so. 


MBS.  CAUDLE  NEEDS  SPRING  CLOTHING. 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 


greF  there's  anything  iti  the  world  I  hate — and  you  know  it — it  is,  asking 
i^  you  for  money.  I  am  sure  for  myself,  I'd  rather  go  without  a  thing 
T^  a  thousand  times,  and  I  do,  the  more  shame  for  you  to  let  mo. 
\,  WJiat  do  I  want  noiv  ?  As  if  you  didn't  know !  I'm  sure,  if  I'd 
any  money  of  ray  own,  I'd  never  ask  you  for  a  farthing — never!  It's 
painful  to  me,  gracious  knows !  What  do  you  say?  //'  it's  painful,  whij 
so  often  do  it  ?  I  suppose  you  call  that  a  joke — one  of  your  elub-jokcs ! 
As  I  say,  I  only  wish  I'd  any  money  of  my  own.  If  there  is  anything  that 
humblf's  a  [)Oor  woman,  it  is  coming  to  a  man's  pocket  for  every  farthing. 
It's  dreadful ! 

Now,  Caudle,  you  .shall  hear  me,  for  it  isn't  often  I  speak.  Pray,  do 
you  know  what  month  it  is?  And  did  you  see  how  the  children  looked  at 
church  to-day — like  nobody  else's  children?  Wliat  ircis  the  matter  ivith 
them?  Oh!  Caudle  how  can  you  ru^k  !  Weren't  they  all  in  their  thick 
morinoes  and  Vjcaver  bonnets?  What  do  you  say  ?  WJiat  of  it?  Whatl 
You'll  tell  me  that  you  didn't  see  how  IIk;  Briggs  girls,  in  tlu>ir  new  chips, 
turned  their  noses  up  at 'em !  And  you  didn't  see  liow  Iho  Browns 
looked  at  the  Smiths,  and  then  at  our  poor   girls,  as    much  as    to  say, 


MRS.  CAUDLE  NEEDS  SPRING  CLOTHING.  47y 

"  Poor  creatures!  what  figures  for  the  first  of  May?"  You  didn't  see  it! 
The  more  shame  for  you !  I'm  sure,  those  Briggs  girls — the  little  minxes  ! 
— put  me  into  such  a  pucker,  I  could  have  pulled  their  ears  for  'em  over 
the  pew.  What  do  you  say  !  /  ought  to  he  ashamed  to  own  it  f  Now, 
Caudle,  it's  no  use  talking ;  those  children  shall  not  cross  over  the  threshold 
next  Sunday  if  they  haven't  things  for  the  summer.  Now  mind — they 
shan't ;  and  there's  an  end  of  it ! 

Tm  always  wanting  money  for  clothes  ?  How  can  you  say  that  ? 
I'm  sure  there  are  no  children  in  the  world  that  cost'  their  father  so  little ; 
but  that's  it — the  less  a  poor  woman  does  upon,  the  less  she  may.  Now, 
Caudle,  dear !  What  a  man  you  are  !  I  know  you'll  give  me  the  money, 
because,  after  all,  I  think  you  love  your  children,  and  like  to  see  'em  well 
dressed.  It's  only  natural  that  a  father  should.  Hoio  much  money  do  1 
want  ?     Let  me  see,  love.     There's   Caroline,  and   Jane,  and  Susan,  and 

Mary  Ann,  and What  do  you  say  ?     /  neednt  count  'em  ?     You  know 

how  mxxny  there  are!  That's  just  the  way  you  take  me  up  !  Well,  how 
much  money ivill  it  take?  Let  me  see — I'll  tell  you  in  a  minute.  You 
always  love  to  see  the  dear  things  like  new  pins.  I  know  that,  Caudle ; 
and  though  I  say  it,  bless  their  little  hearts  !  they  do  credit  to  you.  Caudle. 

ITow  much  ?  Now,  don't  be  in  a  hurry  !  Well,  I  think,  with  good 
pinching — and  you  know,  Caudle,  there's  never  a  wife  who  can  pinch 
closer  than  I  can — I  think,  with  pinching,  I  can  do  with  twenty  pounds. 
What  did  you  say  ?  Twenty  fiddlesticks  ?  What!  You  won't  give  half 
the  money  f  Very  well,  Mr.  Caudle ;  I  don't  care  ;  let  the  children  go  in 
rags ;  let  them  stop  from  church,  and  grow  up  like  heathens  and  cannibals; 
and  then  you'll  save  your  money,  and,  I  suppose,  be  satisfied.  What  do 
you  say  ?  Ten  pounds  enough  ?  Yes,  just  like  you  men ;  you  think 
things  cost  nothing  for  women ;  but  you  don't  care  how  much  you  lay  out 
upon  yourselves.  TJcey  only  leant  frocks  and  bonnets?  How  do  you 
know  what  they  want?  How  should  a  man  know  anything  at  all  about 
it  ?  And  you  won't  give  more  than  ten  pounds  ?  Very  well.  Then  you 
may  go  shopping  with  it  yourself,  and  see  what  yoiill  make  of  it !  I'll 
have  none  of  your  ten  pounds,  I  can  tell  you — no  sir  ! 

No ;  you've  no  cause  to  say  that.  I  don't  want  to  dress  the  children 
up  like  countesses  !  You  often  throw  that  in  my  teeth,  you  do ;  but  you 
know  it's  false,  Caudle;  you  know  it!  I  only  wish  to  give  'em  proper 
notions  of  themselves ;  and  what,  indeed,  can  the  poor  things  think,  when 
they  see  the  Briggses,  the  Browns,  and  the  Smiths,— and  their  fathers 
don't  make  the  money  you  do.  Caudle— when  they  see  them  as  fine  as 
tulips?     Why,  they  must  think  themselves  nobody.     However,  the  twenty 


480 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


pounds  I  will  have,  if  I've  any;  or  not  a  fartliiug  !  No,  sir ;  no, — I  don't 
want  to  dress  up  the  children  Uke  peacocks  and  parrots !  I  only  want  to 
make  'em  respectable.  What  do  you  say  ?  You'll  give  me  fifteen  pounds  ? 
No,  Caudle,  no,  not  a  penny  will  I  take  under  twenty.  If  I  did,  it  would 
seem  as  if  I  wanted  to  waste  your  money;  and  I  am  sure,  when  I  come 
to  think  of  it  twenty  pounds  will  hardly  do ! 


TffU  DA  Y-DREAM. 


A.    TENNYSON. 


THE   SLEEPING   PALACE. 


3r;l'^HE   varying    year  with    blade    and 
-'^Mj^  Bheaf 

Clothes  and  re-clothes  the  happy 
plains ; 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf; 
Here  stays   the  blood   along   the 
veins. 

Faint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  curled, 
Faint  murmurs  from  the  meadows  come. 


Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower, 
On  the  hall, — hearths  the  festal  fires, 

The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower. 
The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 

Roof-haunting  martins  warm  their  eggs  ; 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stayed, 
The  mantels  from  the  golden  pegs 

Droop  sleepily.     No  sound  is  made — 
Not  even  of  a  gnat  that  sings. 


THE   TEKUACE    LAWN. 


liiko  hints  and  fohoes  of  the  world 
To  Hpirita  folded  in  the  wornb. 

Hoft  luHtro  bathcH  the  range  of  urns 
On  every  Hlanting  terrace  lawn, 

The  fountain  to  liiH  place  returns, 
Deep  in  the  garden  lake  witlidrawn. 


More  like  a  pictuie  scemdh  all, 
Than  those  old  jiortraits  of  old  kings, 
That  watch  tin;  sleeper.'^  from  tlio  wall. 

Here  sitH  tlie  bullcr  with  a  flask 

Between  his  knees,  half  drained  ;  ;iiid  tiiero 
The  wrinkled  steward  nt  lii.s  liisk  ; 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


481 


The  maid  of  honor  blooming  fair, 
The  page  has  oaugiit  her  hand  in  bis, 

Her  lips  are  .severed  as  to  speak  ; 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss  ; 

The  blush  is  fixed  upon  her  cheek. 

Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass, 

The  beams  that,  through  the  oriel  shine. 
Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 

And  beaker  brimmed  with  noble  wine. 
Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps ; 

Grave  faces  gathered  in  a  ring. 
His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps : 

He  must  have  been  a  jolly  king. 

All  round  a  hedge  ufishoots,  and  shows 

At  distance  like  a  little  wood  ; 
Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes. 

And  grapes  with  bunches  red  as  blood  ; 
All  creeping  plants,  a  wall  of  green, 

Close-matted,  burr  and  brake  and  briar, 
And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen. 

High  up,  the  topmost  palace  spire. 

When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 

And  thought  and  time  be  born  again, 
And  newer  knowledge  drawing  nigh. 

Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of  men  ? 
Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain, 

As  all  were  ordered,  ages  since. 
Come  care  and  pleasure,  hope  and  pain. 

And  bring  the  fated  fairy  prince ! 

THE  SLEEI'IXU    BEAUTY. 

Year  after  year  unto  her  feet. 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone. 
Across  the  purple  coverlet. 

The  maiden's  jet-black  hair  has  grown  ; 
On  eibher  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth  streaming  from  a  braid  of  pearl ; 
The  slumb'rous  light  is  rich  and  warm. 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 

The  silk  star-broidered  coverlid 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould. 
Languidly  ever  ;  and,  amid 

Her  full  black  ringlets,  downward  rolled. 
Glows  forth  each  softly  shadowed  arm, 

With  bracelets  of  the  diamond  bright, 
tier  constant  beauty  doth  inform 

Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with  light. 


She  sleeps  ;  her  breathings  are  not  heard 

In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirred  - 

That  lie  upoti  her  charmed  heart. 
She  sleeps  ;  on  either  hand  upswells 

The  gold  fringed  pillow  lightly  prest ; 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 

A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 

THE    .\KUIVAL. 

All  precious  things,  di.sccvered  late. 

To  those  who  seek  them  issue  forth. 
For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 

And  draws  the  veil  from  hidden  wortb. 
He  travels  far  from  other  skies — 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks — 
A  fairy  prince,  with  joyful  eyes. 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 

The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 

That  strove  in  other  days  tc  pass. 
Are  withered  in  the  thorny  close, 

Or  scattered  blanching  in  the  grass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead : 

"  They  perished  in  their  daring  deeds,' 
This  proverb  flashes  through  his  head : 

"  The  many  fail ;  the  one  succeeds." 

He  comes,  scarce  knowing  what  he  seeks, 

He  breaks  the  hedge  ;   he  enters  there ; 
The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks ; 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  fair  ; 
For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 

About  his  path  and  hover  near 
With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk. 

And  whispered  voices  in  his  ear. 

More  close  and  close  his  footsteps  wind ; 

The  magic  music  in  his  heart 
Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 

The  quiet  chamber  Air  apart. 
His  spirit  flutters  like  a  lark. 

He  stoops — to  kiss  her — on  his  kne« : 
"  Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark. 

How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  must  be '' 

THE    REVIVAL. 

A  touch,  a  kiss  !  the  charm  was  snapt, 
There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clocks ; 

And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt, 
And  barking  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks ; 


4«2 


THE  LITTLE  RID  HIN. 


A.  ftiller  light  illumined  all ; 

A  breeze  through  all  the  garden  swept ; 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall ; 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew, 

The  butler  drank,  the  steward  crawled, 
The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew, 

The  parrot  screamed,  the  peacock  squalled ; 
The  maid  and  page  renewed  their  strife ; 

The  palace  banged  and  buzzed  and  clackt ; 
And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 

Dashed  downward  in  a  cataract. 

And  last  of  all  the  king  awoke. 

And  in  his  chair  himself  upreared. 
And  yawned,  and  rubbed  his  face  and  spoke; 

"  By  holy  rood,  a  royal  beard! 
How  say  you  ?  we  have  slept,  my  lords ; 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

'Twas  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 

'Pardy!"  returned  the  king,  "but still 

My  joints  are  something  stifiF  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 

I  mentioned  half  an  hour  ago?" 
The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteous  words  returned  reply  ; 
But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 

THE    DEPARTURE. 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 
And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold ; 


And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 
In  that  new  w^orld  which  is  the  old. 

Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim. 

And  deep   into  the  dying  day. 
The  happy  princess  followed  him. 

"  I'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

0  love,  for  such  another  kiss  !" 
"  Oh  wake  for  ever,  love,"  she  hears, 

"  0  love,  'twas  such  as  this  and  this." 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne, 
And  streamed  through  many  a  golden  bar, 

The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 

"  0  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep  !" 

"  0  happy  sleep  that  lightly  fled  !" 
"  0  happy  kiss  that  woke  thy  sleep  !" 

"  O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the  dead.' 
And  o'er  them  many  a  flowering  range, 

Of  vapor  buoyed  the  crescent  bark; 
And,  rapt  through  many  a  rosy  change. 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

"  A  hundred  summers  !  can  it  be  ? 

And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where?" 
"  0  seek  my  father's  court  with  me, 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day. 

Through  all  the  world  she  followed  him. 


% 


THE  LITTLE  BID  If  IK 


MRS.    WHITNEY. 


'^'VAAj,  thin,  there  Wius  once't  upon  a  time,  away  off'  in  the  ould  coun- 
t'^  H-  fry,  livin'  all  her  lane  in  the  woodH,  in  a  wee  bit  iv  a  house  be 
f-*-'''^  herself,  a  little  rid  hin.  Nice  an' quiet  she  was,  and  niver  did  no 
1'  kind  o'  harrum  in  her  life.     An'  there  lived  out  over  the  hill,  in  a 

¥  din  o'  the  rocks,  a  crafty  ould  felly  iv  a  fox.     An'  this  same  ould 

T  villain  iv  a  fo.x,  he   laid  awake  o'  nights,  and  he  prowled  round 


33 


"A  crafty  OUid  leiiy  ly  a  fox. 


THE  LITTLE  RID  IIIN.  433 


slyly  iv  a  day-time,  thinkin'  always  so  busy  how  he'd  git  the  little  rid 
hin,  an'  carry  her  home  an'  bile  her  up  for  his  shupper.  But  the  wise  little 
rid  hin  niver  went  intil  her  bit  iv  a  house,  but  she  locked  the  door  aftheir 
her,  and  pit  the  kay  in  her  pocket.  So  the  ould  rashkill  iv  a  fox,  he 
watched,  an'  he  prowled,  an'  he  laid  awake  nights,  till  he  came  all  to  skin 
an'  bone,  an'  sorra  a  ha'porth  o'  the  little  rid  hin  could  he  git  at.  But  at 
lasht  there  came  a  shcame  intil  his  wicked  ould  head,  and  he  tuk  a  big 
bag  one  mornin',  over  his  shouldher,  an'  he  says  till  his  mother,  says  he, 
"Mother,  have  the  pot  all  bilin'  agin'  I  come  home,  for  I'll  bring  the  little 
rid  hin  to-night  for  our  shupper."  An'  away  he  wint,  over  the  hill,  an' 
came  crapin'  shly  an'  soft  through  the  woods  to  where  the  little  rid  hin 
lived  in  her  shnug  bit  iv  a  house.  An'  shure,  jist  at  the  very  minute  that 
he  got  along,  out  comes  the  little  rid  hin  out  iv  the  door,  to  pick  up 
shticks  to  bile  her  tay-kettle.  "  Begorra,  now,  but  I'll  have  yees,"  says 
the  shly  ould  fox,  an'  in  he  shlips,  unbeknownst,  intil  the  house,  an'  hides 
behind  the  door.  An'  in  comes  the  little  rid  hin,  a  minute  afther,  with  her 
apron  full  of  shticks,  an'  shuts  to  the  door  an'  locks  it,  an'  pits  the  kay  in 
her  pocket.  An'  thin  she  turns  round, — an'  there  shtands  the  baste  iv  a 
fox  in  the  corner.  Well,  thin,  what  did  she  do,  but  jist  dhrop  down  her 
shticks,  and  fly  up  in  a  great  fright  and  flutter  to  the  big  bame  acrass 
inside  0'  the  roof,  where  the  fox  couldn't  git  at  her  ! 

"  Ah,  ha !  "  says  the  ould  fox,  "  I'll  soon  bring  yees  down  out  0'  that!" 
An'  he  began  to  whirrul  round,  an'  round,  an'  round,  fashter,  an'  fashter, 
an'  fashter,  on  the  floor,  afther  his  big,  bushy  tail,  till  the  little  rid  hin  got 
so  dizzy  wid  lookin',  that  she  jist  tumbled  down  aff"  the  bame,  and  the  fox 
whipped  her  up  and  popped  her  intill  his  bag,  an'  shtarted  off  home  in 
a  minute.  An'  he  wint  up  the  wood,  an'  down  the  wood,  half  the  day 
long,  with  the  little  rid  hin  shut  up  shmotherin'  in  the  bag.  Sorra  a  know 
she  knowd  where  she  was  at  all,  at  all.  She  thought  she  was  all  biled  an'  ate 
up,  an'  finished  shure  !  But,  by  an'  by,  she  remimbered  herself,  an'  pit  her 
hand  in  her  pocket,  an'  tuk  out  her  little  bright  scissors,  and  shnipped 
a  big  hole  in  the  bag  behind,  an'  out  she  leapt,  an'  picked  up  a  big  shtone 
an'  popped  it  intil  the  bag,  an'  rin  aff  home,  an'  locked  the  door. 

An'  the  fox  he  tugged  away  up  over  the  hill,  with  the  big  shtone  at 
his  back  thumpin'  his  shouldhers,  thinkin'  to  himself  how  heavy  the  little 
rid  hin  was,  an'  what  a  fine  shupper  he'd  have.  An'  whin  he  came  in 
sight  iv  his  din  in  the  rocks,  and  shpied  his  ould  mother  a  watchin'  for  him 
at  the  door,  he  says,  "  Mother  !  have  ye  the  pot  bilin'  ?  "  An'  the  ould 
mother  says,  "  Sure  an'  it  is ;  an'  have  ye  the  little  rid  hin  ?  "  "  Yes,  jist 
here  in  me  bag.     Open  the  lid  o'  the  pot  till  I  pit  her  in,"  says  he. 


484 


BYRON  S  LATEST  VERSEiS. 


An'  the  ould  mother  iox  she  lifted  the  Hd  o'  the  pot,  an'  the  rashkill 
untied  the  bag,  an'  hild  it  over  tiie  pot  o'  bilin'  wather,  an'  shuk  in  the 
big,  heavy  shtone.  An'  the  bilin'  water  shplashed  up  all  over  the  rogue 
iv  a  fox,  an'  his  mother,  and  shcalded  them  both  to  death.  An'  the  little 
rid  hin  lived  safe  in  her  house  foriver  afther. 


THE  MEETING  OF  T/n-:  WATERS. 

THOMAS     MOORE. 


«HERE   is  not  in    the  wide  world  a  'Twa.s  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  lull, 

valley  so  sweet,  |  Oh!   no — it  was   something   more   exquisite 

As  that  vale  in   whose  '■•osora  the  •                   still, 
bright  waters  meet ; 

Oh-  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  „p^.^^  ^^.^^  ^^-^^^^^^^^  ^,^^  beloved  of  my  bosom 

must  depart,  ,,,^,.^  ^^^^^ 

.1     Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  ^y,,^  „^^^^|^  ..^^^y  ^^^^  ^^^^^  ^f  nvhantnirnt 

from  my  h.,-art.  ^^^^  ^^^^_ 

AikI  who  felt  how  tlie  best  charms  of  Natur** 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er  the  improve, 

scene  When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  th»i- 

H'T  j)urest  of  crystal  ami  brightest  of  green  ;  i                   we  love. 


BYRON'S  LATEST  VERSES. 


BlF>  time  this  heart  should  b.^  unmoved,  i       My  days  arc  in  the  yellow  le;if, 


Since  others  it  hits  ceased  to  move ; 
^^'♦'— ^     Yet,  though  I  cannot  bi'  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love. 


J^ 


Thellowersaml  fruitsoflove  are  gone, 
The  worm,  the  r-anker,  and  the  griet 
Are  mint'  alone. 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES. 


485 


The  fire  that  in  my  bosom  preys 
Is  like  tc  some  volcanic  isle, 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze, 
A  funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 
The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  ol  love,  I  cannot  share. 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But  't  is  not  here, — it  is  not  here, 
Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  now 
Where  glory  seals  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field. 
Glory  and  Greece  about  us  see ; 
T'le  Spartan  borne  upon  the  shield 
Was  not  more  free. 


Awake !  not  Greece, — she  is  awake ! 
Awake,  my  spirit !  think  through  whom 
My  life-blood  tastes  its  parent  lake, 
And  thon  strike  home ! 

Tread  those  reviving  pa-sions  down. 
Unworthy  manlKjod  '.  unto  thee, 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regrett'st  thy  youth,— why  live? 
The  land  of  honorable  death 
Is  here, — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath ! 

Seek  out — less  often  sought  than  found — 
A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best ; 
Then  look  around  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  rest ! 


DREAMS  AND  REALITIES. 


PHCEBE   CARYS    LAST    POEM. 


ROSAMOND,  thou  fair  and  good, 
And  perfect  flower  of  womanhood, 

Thou  royal  rose  of  June  ! 
Why  did'st  thou   droop   before   thy 

time  ? 
Why  wither  in  the  first  sweet  prime  ? 

Whv  did'st  thou  die  so  soon  ? 


For,  looking  backward  through  my  tears 
On  thee,  and  on  my  wasted  years, 

I  cannot  choose  but  say. 
If  thou  had'st  lived  to  be  my  guide. 
Or  thou  had'st  lived  and  I  had  died, 

'Twere  better  far  to-day. 

O  child  of  light,  0  Golden  head  !— 
Bright  sunbeam  for  one  moment  shed 

Upon  life's  lonely  way — 
Why  did'st  thou  vanish  from  our  sight  ? 
Could  they  not  spare  my  little  light 

From  Heavsn's  unclouded  day  ? 

0  Friend  so  true,  0  Friend  so  good ! — 
Thou  one  dream  of  my  maidenhood, 


That  gave  youth  all  its  charms — 
What  had  I  done,  or  what  had.-;t  thou, 
That,  through  this  lonesome  world  till  now. 

We  walk  with  empty  arms? 

And  yet  had  this  poor  soul  been  fed 
With  all  it  loved  and  coveted, — 

Had  life  been  always  fair — 
Would  these  dear  dreams  that  ne'er  depart, 
That  thrill  with  bliss  my  inmost  heart, 

Forever  tremble  there  ? 

If  still  they  kept  their  earthly  place 
The  friends  I  held  in  my  embrace, 

And  gave  to  death,  alas  ! 
Could  I  have  learned  that  clear,  calm  faith 
That  looks  beyond  the  bonds  of  death, 

And  almost  long,  to  pass  ? 

Sometimes,  I  think,  the  things  we  see 
Are  shadows  of  the  things  to  be  ; 

That  what  we  plan  we  build  ; 
That  every  hope  that  hath  been  crossed. 
And  every  dream  we  thought  was  lost, 

In  heaven  shall  be  fulfilled. 


m 


DAVID,  KING  OF  ISRAEL. 


That,  even  the  children  of  the  brain 
H^^ve  not  been  born  and  died  in  vain, 

Though  here  unclothed  and  dumb  ; 
But  on  some  brighter,  better  shore 
Tbev  live,  embodied  evermore, 

And  wait  for  us  to  come. 


And  when  on  that  last  day  we  rise. 
Caught  up  between  the  earth  and  skiee. 

Then  shall  we  hear  our  Lord 
Say,  Thou  hast  done  with  doubt  and  deatlj, 
Henceforlh,  according  to  thy  faith, 

Shall  be  thy  faith's  reward. 


DA  VID,  KING  OF  ISRAEL. 


EDWARD  IRVING. 

hrnf  HERE  never  was  a  specimen  of  manliood  so  rich  and  ennobled  as 
i-^^  David,  the  son  of  Jesse,  whom  other  saints  haply  may  have  equalled 
in  single  features  of  his  character;  but  such  a  combination  of  man- 
ly, heroic  qualities,  such  a  flush  of  generous,  godlike  excellencies, 
hath  never  yet  been  seen  embodied  in  a  single  man.  His  Psalms, 
to  speak  as  a  man,  do  place  him  in  the  highest  rank  of  lyric  poets,  as  they 
set  him  above  all  the  inspired  writers  of  the  Old  Testament, — equalling  in 
subhmity  the  flights  of  Isaiah  himself,  and  revealing  the  cloudy  mystery 
of  Ezekiel ;  but  in  love  of  country,  and  glorying  in  its  heavenly  patronage, 
surpassing  them  all.  And  where  are  there  such  expressions  of  the  varied 
conditions  into  which  human  nature  is  cast  by  the  accidents  of  Providence, 
such  delineations  of  deep  affliction  and  inconsolable  anguish,  and  anon  such 
joy,  such  rapture,  such  revelry  of  emotion  in  the  worship  of  the  living  God! 
such  invocations  to  all  nature,  animate  and  inanimate,  such  summonings  of 
the  hidden  powers  of  harmony  and  of  the  breathing  instruments  of  melody! 
Single  hymns  of  this  poet  would  have  conferred  immortality  upon  any 
mortal,  and  borne  down  his  name  as  one  of  the  most  fiivored  of  tlie  sons 
of  Boen. 

The  force  of  his  character  waa  Viist,  and  the  scope  of  his  life  was  im- 
mense. His  harp  was  full-stringed,  and  every  angel  of  joy  and  of  sorrow 
swept  over  the  chords  as  ho  passed;  Imt  the  melody  always  breathed  of 
heaven.  And  such  oceans  of  affection  lay  witliin  liis  brea.st  as  could  not 
always  slumbt.-r  in  thcsir  calnmcss;  for  the  hearts  of  a  hundred  men  strove 
and  struggled  togoth'T  within  tho  luirrow  continent  of  liis  single  licvirt. 
And  will  the  scornfnl  in<'n  have  no  sympathy  for  oiki  so  conditioiii'i],  but 
Bcorn  him  becauso  ho  i-iilcd  not  with  constant  quietn(!ss  the  unruly  lK)st  o' 
natures  which  dwelt  within  his  single  soul?  Of  s<;lf-command  surely  lu;  wiD 
not  be  held  deficient  who  endured  Saul's  javelin  to  bo  so  often  launched  at 
him,  while  the  people  without  were  willing  to  hail  him  king;  who  cndurea 


THE  GENIUS  OF  MILTON.  437 


all  bodily  hardships  and  taunts  of  his  enemies  when  revenge  was  in  his 
hand,  and  ruled  his  desperate  band  like  a  company  of  saints,  and  restrained 
them  from  their  country's  injury.  But  that  he  should  not  be  able  to  enact 
all  characters  without  a  fault,  the  simple  shepherd,  the  conquering  hero,  and 
the  romantic  lover;  the  perfect  friend,  the  innocent  outlaw,  and  the  roval 
monarch;  the  poet,  the  prophet,  and  the  regenerator  of  the  church;  and 
withal  the  man,  the  man  of  vast  soul,  who  played  not  those  parts  by  turns, 
but  was  the  original  of  them  all,  and  wholly  present  in  them  all, — oh!  that 
he  should  have  fulfilled  this  high-priesthood  of  humanity,  this  universal 
ministry  of  manhood,  without  an  error,  were  more  than  human!  With 
the  defence  of  his  backsliding,  which  he  hath  himself  more  keenly  scruti- 
nized, more  clearly  discerned  against,  and  more  bitterly  lamented  than  any 
of  his  censors,  we  do  not  charge  ourselves;  but  if,  when  of  these  acts  he 
became  convinced,  he  be  found  less  true  to  God,  and  to  righteousness; 
indisposed  to  repentance  and  sorrow  and  anguish;  exculpatory  of  himself; 
stout-hearted  in  his  courses ;  a  formalist  in  his  penitence,  or  in  any  way 
less  worthy  of  a  spiritual  man  in  those  than  in  the  rest  of  his  infinite  moods, 
then,  verily,  strike  him  from  the  canon,  and  let  his  Psalms  become  monkish 
legends,  or  what  you  please.  But  if  these  penitential  Psalms  discover  the 
soul's  deepest  hell  of  agony,  and  lay  bare  the  iron  ribs  of  misery,  whereon 
the  very  heart  dissolveth;  and  if  they,  expressing  the  same  in  words,  shall 
melt  the  soul  that  conceiveth  and  bow  the  head  that  uttereth  them, — then, 
we  say,  let  us  keep  these  records  of  the  Psalmist's  grief  and  despondency 
as  the  most  precious  of  his  utterances,  and  sure  to  be  needed  in  the  case  of 
every  man  who  essay eth  to  live  a  spiritual  life. 


THE  GENIUS  OF  MILTON. 


WALTER   SAVAGE    LANDOR. 


rvlSj^^S  the  needle  turns  away  from  the  rising  sun,  from  the  meridian,  from 
W^^     the  occidental,  from  regions  of  fragrancy  and  gold  and  gems,  and 
*      moves  with  unerring  impulse  to  the  frosts  and  deserts  of   the 
north,  so  Milton  and  some  few  others,  in  politics,  philosophy,  and 
f    religion,  walk  through  the  busy  multitude,  wave  aside  the  importunate 
1     trader,  and,  after  a  momentary  oscillation  from  external  agency,  are 
found  in  the  twilight  and  in  the  storm,  pointing,  with  certain  index,  to  the 
pole-star  of  immutable  truth. 

I  have  often  been  amused  at  thinking  in  what  estimation  the  greate^st 


488 


MABEL  MARTIN. 


of  mankind  were  holden  by  their  contemporaries.  Not  even  the  most 
sagacious  and  prudent  one  could  discover  much  of  them,  or  could  prognos- 
ticate their  future  course  in  the  infinity  of  space !  Men  like  ourselves  are 
permitted  to  stand  near,  and  indeed  in  the  very  presence  of  Milton :  what 
do  they  see?  dark  clothes,  gray  hair  and  sightless  eyes !  Other  men  haye 
better  things ;  other  men,  therefore,  are  nobler  !  The  stars  themselves  are 
only  bright  by  distance;  go  close,  and  all  is  earthy.  But  vapors  illuminate 
these;  from  the  breath  and  from  the  countenance  of  God  comes  light  on 
worlds  higher  than  they;  worlds  to  which  He  has  given  the  forms  and 
names  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton. 


MABEL  MARTIN. 


JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 


PART  I. 


THE    KIVER    VALLEY. 


^^^OROSS  the  level  tableland, 
tJh\r.  A  gra.'^sy,  rarely  troilden  way, 
^y^^vy   With  thinnest  skirt  of  birchen  spray 

And  stunted  growlh  of  cedar,  leads 
To  where  you  see  the  dull  plain  fall 
Sheer  off  steep-slanted,  ploughed  by 
all  I 

The  season's  rainfalls.     On  its  brink 

The  ove^-leanln^  harebells  swing,  | 

With  roots  half  bare  the  pine  trees  cling; 

And  through  the  Hhadow  looking  west. 
You  see  the  wavering  rivr  flow, 
Ak'ng  a  vab-,  that  far  below 


Holds  to  the  sun,  the  sheltering  hills, 
And  glimmering  water-line  between. 
Broad  fields  of  corn  and  meadows  green, 

.■\iid  fruit-bent  orchards  grou])ed  around 
The  low  brown  roofs  and  painted  eaves, 
And  chimney  tojis  half  hiil  in  leaves. 

No  warnu-r  valley  hides  behind 

Yon  wind  scourged  sand-dunes,  cold  ani 

bleak  ; 
No  fairer  river  comes  to  seek 

Th'"  wave  sung  welcome  of  the  sea, 
Or  mark  tin-  northmost  border  line 
Of  sun  loved  growths  of  uul  and  vine. 


MABEL  MARTIN. 


485» 


Here,  ground-fast  in  their  native  fields, 
Untempted  by  the  city's  gain, 
The  quiet  farmer  folk  r'^-^ain 

Who  bear  the  pleasant  name  of  Friends, 
And  keep  their  fathers'  gentle  ways 
And  simple  speech  of  Bible  days  ; 

In  whose  neat  homesteads  woman  holds 
With  modest  ease  her  equal  jilace, 
And  wears  upon  her  tranquil  face 

The  look  of  one  who,  merging  not 
Her  self-hood  in  another's  will. 
Is  love's  and  duty's  handmaid  still. 

Pass  with  me  down  the  path  that  winds 
Through  birches  to  the  open  land. 
Where,  close  upon  the  river  strand 

Yoia  mark  a  cellar,  vine  o'errun. 

Above  whose  wall  of  loosened  stones 
The  sumach  lifts  its  reddening  cones. 


And  the  black  nightshade's  berries  shine, 
And  broad  unsightly  burdocks  fold 
The  household  ruin,  century-old. 

Here,  in  tlie  dim  colonial  time, 

Of  sterner  lives  and  gloomier  faith, 
A  woman  lived,  tradition  saith. 

Who  wrought  lier  neighliors  foul  annoy, 
Andwitclie<l  and  plagu<-d  the  country -side; 
Till  at  the  hangman's  hand  she  died. 

Sit  with  me  while  the  westering  day 
Falls  slantwise  down  the  quiet  vale. 
And,  haply,  ere  yon  loitering  sail. 

That  rounds  the  upper  headland,  falls 
Below  Deer  Island's  pines,  or  sees 
Behind  it  Hawkswood's  belt  of  trees 

Rise  black  against  the  sinking  sun. 
My  idyl  of  its  days  of  old. 
The  valley's  legend  .-^hall  be  told. 


PART    II. 


THE    Hl"SKIN« 


It  was  the  pleasant  harvest-time. 
When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed, 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  their  load. 


And  the  old  swallow-haunted  barns, — 
Brown-gabled,  long,  and  full  of  seame 
Through  which  the  moted  sunlight  streams 


490 


MABEL  MARTIN. 


And  winds  blow  freshly  in,  to  shake 
The  red  plumes  of  the  roosted  cocks, 
And  the  loose  haymow's  scented  locks,- 

Are  filled  with  summer's  ripened  stores, 
Its  odorous  grass  and  barley  sheaves. 
From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their  eaves. 

On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor, 

With  many  an  autumn  threshing  worn, 
Lav  the  heaped  ears  of  unhuskod  corn. 


And  thither  came  young  men  and  maids, 
Beneath  a  moon  that,  large  and  low. 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 

They  took  their  places  ;  some  by  chance, 
And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or  sweet  smile  guided  to  their  choice. 


How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon, 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great  elm- 
boughs  ! 

On  sturdy  boyhood,  sun  embrowned. 
On  girlhood  with  ils  solid  curves 
Of  healthful  strength  and  painless  nerves ! 

And  jests  went  round,  and  laughs,  thatmado 
The  house-dog  an.swer  with  his  howl, 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard  fowl ; 

And  quaint  old  songs  their  fathers  sung 
In  Derby  dales  and  Yorkshire  moors, 
Ere  Norman  William  trod  their  shores; 

And  tales,  whose  merry  license  shook 
The  fat  sides  of  the  Saxon  thane. 
Forgetful  of  the  hovering  Dane, — 

Rude  plays  to  Celt  and  Cimbri  known, 
The  charms  and  riddles  that  beguiled 
On  Oxus'  banks  the  young  world's  child,— 

That  primal  picture-speecli  wherein 
Have  youth  and  maid  the  story  told, 
So  new  in  each,  so  dateless  old. 

Recalling  pastoral  Ruth  in  her 

Who  waited,  blushing  and  demure. 
The  red  ear's  kiss  of  forfeiture. 


PART   111. 


But  still  the  Hweol'iHt  voice  was  mute. 
That  river  valley  over  beard 


Krotri  li|)  uf  iiiai'i  nr  llnoid  of  bird; 
For  Mabel  Martin  Hat  apart. 


MABEL  MARTIN. 


491 


And  let  the  hay-mow's  shadow  fall 
Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  all. 

She  sat  apart,  as  one  forbid, 

Who  knew  that  none  would  condescend 
To  own  the  Witcli-wife's  child  a  friend. 

The  seasons  scarce  had  gone  their  round, 
Since  curious  thousands  thronged  to  see 
Her  mother  at  the  gallows-tree  ; 

And  mocked  the  prison-palsied  limbs 
That  faltered  on  the  fatal  stairs, 
And  wan  lip  trembling  with  its  prayers ! 


For  the  all-perfect  love  thou  art, 
Some  grim  creation  of  his  heart. 

Cast  down  our  idols,  overturn 
Our  bloody  altars  ;  let  us  see 
Thyself  in  Thy  humanity  ! 

Young  Mabel  from  her  mother's  grav« 
Crept  to  her  desolate  hearth-stone, 
And  wrestled  with  her  fate  alone ; 

With  love,  and  anger,  and  despair, 
The  phantoms  of  disordered  sense, 
The  awful  doubts  of  Providence  I 

0,  dreary  broke  the  winter  days, 


■  And  .'^till  u'er  many  a  nc-igiiLunn.:  ■{■•"■: 
She  saw  the  horseshoe's  curved  charm.  " 


Few  questioned  of  the  sorrowing  child. 
Or,  when  they  saw  the  mother  die. 
Dreamed  of  the  daughter's  agony. 

They  went  up  to  their  homes  that  day, 
As  men  and  Christians  justified ; 
God  willed  it,  and  the  wretch  had  died! 

Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies, — 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies  ! 

Forgive  thy  creature  when  he  takes, 


And  dreary  fell  the  winter  nights 
When,  one  by  one,  the  neighboring  lights 

Went  out,  and  human  sounds  grew  still. 
And  all  the  phantom-peopled  dark 
Closed  round  her  hearth-fire's  dying  spark. 

And  summer  days  were  sad  and  long, 
And  sad  the  uncompanioned  eves, 
And  sadder  sunset-tinted  leaves, 

And  Indian  Summer's  airs  of  balm ; 
She  scarcely  felt  the  soft  caress, 
The  beauty  died  of  loneliness  I 


492 


MABEL  MAPwTIN. 


The  school-boys  jeered  her  as  they  passed,  An<l  still  her  weary  wheel  went  round 

And,  when  she  sought  the  house  of  prayer, 
Her  mother's  curse  pursued  her  there. 

And  still  o'er  many  a  neighboring  door 

She  saw  the  horseshoe's  curved  charm,  ,    ^^^ 

To  guard  against  her  mother's  harm  :  ^fe 


That  mother,  poor  and  sick  and  lame, 
Who  daily,  bj'  the  old  arm-chair. 
Folded  her  withered  liands  in  jirayer  ; 

Who  turned,  in  Salem's  dreary  jail, 
Her  worn  old  Bible  o'er  and  o'er, 
When  her  dim  eyes  could  read  no  more ! 

Sore  tried  and  pained,  the  poor  girl  kept 
Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her  way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet  the  day, 


Day  after  day,  with  no  relief: 
Small  leisure  have  the  poor  for  grief. 


PART    IV. 


irtllllliMliK  .'IN 


THK   (■IIAMliDX, 


Bo  in  th'!  shadow  Mahol  Hitn  ; 

Untouched  by  mirth  she  kcoh  and  licarH, 
Her  smile  ia  sa^Jdcr  than  her  toarH. 


But  cruel  eyes  bavo  found  h<r  out, 


And  cruel  lii)S  repeat  her  name, 

And  taunt  her  with  her  mother's  fJiam© 

She  answered  not  witli  railin^^  words, 
Tint  drew  ln-r  ajiron  o'er  lior  hwc. 
And,  snlil)in^^,  glidi'd  frmn  tln'  ]>1ace. 


MABEL  MARTIN. 


493 


And  only  pausing  at  tho  door, 

Her  sad  eyes  met  the  troubled  gaze 
Of  one,  who  in  her  better  days, 

Had  been  her  warm  and  steady  friend, 
Ere  yet  her  mother's  doom  had  made 
Even  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 

He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears, 
And  starting,  with  an  angry  frown, 
Hushed  all  the  wicked  murmurs  down. 

••Good  neighbors  mine,''  he  sternly  said, 
"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or  jest ; 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 

"She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child ; 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 


"  Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace-, 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly, 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows — not  I. 

"  I  know  who  swore  her  life  away ; 
And  as  God  lives,  I'd  not  condemn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them." 

The  broadest  lands  in  all  the  town, 
The  skill  to  guide,  the  power  to  awe, 
Were  Harden's,  and  his  word  was  lavr. 

None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face, 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside  -. 
"  The  little  witch  is  evil-eyed! 

"  Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 
Or  witched  a  churn  or  dairy-pan  ; 
But  she,  forsooth,  must  charm  a  man  I" 


PART   V. 


I>'    TUE   SUAiiuW. 


Poor  Mabel,  homeward  turning,  passed 
The  nameless  terrors  of  the  wood, 
And  saw,  as  if  a  ghost  pursued, 

Her  shadow  gliding  in  the  moon  ; 

The  soft  breath  of  the  west  wind  gave 
A  chill  as  from  her  mother's  grave. 

How  dreary  seemed  the  silent  house! 
Wide  in  the  moonbeams'  ghastly  glare 
Its  windows  had  a  dead  man's  stare ! 

*nd,  like  a  gaunt  and  spectral  hand, 
The  tremulous  shadow  of  a  birch 
Reached  out  and  touched  the  door's  low 
porch, 


As  if  to  lift  its  latch :  hard  by, 
A  sudden  warning  call  she  heard, 
The  night-cry  of  a  boding  bird. 

She  leaned  against  the  door  ;  her  face. 
So  lair,  so  young,  so  full  of  pain. 
White  in  the  moonlight's  silver  rain. 

The  river,  on  its  pebbled  rim, 
Made  music  such  as  childhood  knew  ; 
The  door-yard  tree  was  whispered  through 

By  voices  such  as  childhood's  ear 
Had  heard  in  moonlights  long  ago  : 
And  through  the  willow-boughs  below. 


494 


MABEL  MARTIN. 


She  saw  the  rippled  waters  shine  ; 
Beyond,  in  waves  of  shade  and  light, 
The  hills  rolled  off  into  the  night. 

Rhe  saw  and  heard,  but  over  all 
A  sense  of  some  transforming  spell, 
The  shadow  of  her  sick  heart  fell. 

And  still  across  the  wooded  space 
The  harvest  lights  of  Harden  shone, 
And  song  and  jest  and  laugh  went  on, 

And  he,  so  gentle,  true  and  strong, 
Of  men  the  bravest  and  the  best. 
Had  he,  too,  scorned  her  with  the  rest? 

She  strove  to  drown  her  sense  of  wrong. 
And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way, 
To  teach  her  better  heart  to  pray. 

Poor  child  1  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 
'irew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery  :  "  Let  me  die ! 


Oh  !  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes 
And  hide  me  where  the  cruel  speech 
And  mocking  finger  may  not  reach ! 

'  I  dare  not  breathe  my  mother's  name : 
A  daughter's  right  I  dare  not  crave 
To  weep  above  her  unblest  grave ! 

'  Let  me  not  live  until  my  heart, 
With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 
To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 

'  0  God  !  have  mercy  on  Thy  child. 
Whose  faith  in  Thee  grows  weak  and  small, 
And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all !" 


A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell, 

And  murmuring  wind  and  wave  became 
A  voice  whose  burden  was  her  name. 


PART  VL 


nil':    iii;ri:Mi  iiAi 


Had  God  then  heard  her  ?  Had  Ho  sent 
His  angel  down  ?  In  flenh  and  blood, 
Before  her  Esek  Har<l(!n  Htood  ! 

1I<;  laid  liin  liand  Upon  h<:r  iiriii  : 

"  U<ar  Mabel,  tliiH  no  nion!  hIijiU  be; 
Who  Bcoffa  at  you  must  »cyll  at  me. 


You  know  rough  Esok  Harden  well ; 
And  if  ho  seems  no  suitor  gay. 
And  if  his  hair  is  touched  with  gray, 

'Tlie  rnaiilcii  grown  sliull  invr  find 
His  heart  less  warm  llian  wlnn  she  smilffl 
Upon  his  knees,  a  little  i^'liild." 


A  MARINER'S  DESCRIPTION  OF  A  PIANO. 


496 


Her  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of  joy, 
As,  folded  in  his  strong  embrace, 
She  looked  in  Esek  Harden's  face. 

"  0,  truest  friend  of  all !"  she  said, 
"  God  bless  you  for  your  kindly  thought. 
And  make  me  worthy  of  my  lot!" 

He  led  her  forth,  and  blent  in  one. 
Beside  their  happy  pathway  ran 
The  shadows  of  the  maid  and  man. 

He  led  her  through  his  dewy  fields, 

To  where  the  swinging  lanterns  glowed. 
And  through  tlie  doors  the  buskers  showed. 

"  Good  friends  and  neighbors  !"  Esek  said, 
"  I'm  weary  of  this  lonely  life  ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife! 

"  She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and  all ; 
The  past  is  past,  and  all  offence 
Falls  harmless  from  her  innocence. 


"  Henceforth  she  stands  no  more  alone ; 
You  know  what  Esek  Harden  is ; — 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or  his. 

"  Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be  sung 
That  ever  made  the  old  heart  young. 

"  For  now  the  lost  has  found  a  home  ; 
And  a  lone  hearth  shall  brighter  burn, 
As  all  the  household  joys  return !" 

0,  pleasantly  the  harvest-moon, 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them   through   the   great  elm 
boughs ! 

On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair. 
On  Esek's  shaggy  strength  it  fell ; 
And  the  wind  whispered,  "  It  is  well!" 


A  MARINERS  DESCRIPTION  OF  A  PIANO. 


^  SEA  captain,  who  was  a.sked  by  his  wife  to  look  at  some  pianos 
p  while  he  was  in  the  city,  with  a  view  of  buying  her  one,  wrote  home 
to  her :  "  I  saw  one  that  I  thought  would  suit  you,  black  walnut 
hull,  strong  bulk-heads,  strengthened  fore  and  aft  with  iron  frame, 
ceiled  with  white  wood  and  maple.  Rigging,  steel  wii-e — double 
on  the  rat  lines,  and  whipped  wire  on  the  lower  stays,  and  heavier 
cordage.  Belaying  pins  of  steel  and  well  driven  home.  Length  of  taffrail 
over  all,  six  feet  two  inches.  Breadth  of  beam  thirty-eight  inches ;  depth 
of  hold  fourteen  inches.  This  light  draft  makes  the  craft  equally  servicea- 
ble in  high  seas  or  low  flats.  It  has  two  martingales,  one  for  the  light 
airs  and  zephyr  winds,  and  one  for  strong  gusts  and  sudden  squalls.  Both 
are  worked  with  foot  rests,  near  the  kelson,  handy  for  the  quartermaster, 
and  out  o'  sight  of  the  passengers.  The  running  gear  from  the  hand  rail 
to  the  cordage  is  made  of  white-wood  and  holly ;  works  free  and  clear ; 
strong  enough  for  the  requirements  of  a  musical  tornado,  and  gentle  enough 
for  the  requiem  of  a  departing  class.  Hatches,  black  walnut ;  can  be  bat- 
tened down  proof  against  ten-year-old  boys  and  commercial  drummers,  or 


496 


LIFE. 


can  be  clewed  up,  on  occasion,  and  sheeted  home  for  a  first-class  instrumen- 
tal cyclone.  I  sailed  the  craft  a  little,  and  thought  she  had  a  list  to  star- 
board. Anyhow,  I  liked  the  starboard  side  better  than  the  port,  but  the 
ship-keeper  told  me  the  owners  had  other  craft  of  like  tonnage  awaiting 
sale  or  charter,  which  were  on  just  even  keel." 


LIFE. 


COMPOSED  OF   LINES    SELECTED  FROM  THIRTY-EIGHT   AUTHORS. 

^^mM  

!IY  all  this  toil  for  triumphs  of  au  '  Thou  pendulum  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear; 

hour?  {Young.  {Byron. 

Life's  a  short  summer — man  is  but  i   Her  sensual  snares  let  faithless  pleasure  lay. 

V*;.;^^>/  a  flower;  {Johnson.  \  {Smollett. 

y        By  turns  we  catch  the  fatal  breath  ;  With  craft  and  skill  to  ruin  and  betray. 

I"  and  die—  {Pope.  \  {Crabbe. 

I         The  cradle  and  the  tomb,  alas  !  so  Soar  not  too  high  to  fall,  but  stoop  to  rise ; 
nigh.                                {Prior.  {Massinger. 

To  be  is  better  far  than  not  to  be,        {Sewell.  |  We  masters  grow  of  all  that  we  despise. 

Though  all  man's  life  may  seem  a  tragedy  ;  '  {Crowley. 

{Spenser.  Oh,  then,  renounce  that  impious  self-esteem  ; 

But  light  cares  speak  when  mighty  griefs  are  {Beattie. 

dumb —  {Daniel,  i  Riches  have  wings,  and  grandeur  is  a  dream. 

The   bottom    is    but    shallow   whfince   they  [  {Ccwper. 

come.  {Paleigh.  Think  not  ambition  wise  because  'tis  brave — 


Your  fate  is  but  the  common  fate  of  all ; 

^  {Longfellow. 

Unmingled  joys  can  here  no  man  befall  ; 

{Southwell. 
Nature  to  each  allots  his  proper  sphere. 

{Congreve. 


{Davcnant. 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave.  ( Gray. 
What  is  ambition  ?     'Tis  a  glorious  cheat, 

( WiUis. 
Only  destructive  to  the  brave  and  great. 

{Addison. 


Fortune  makes  folly  her  jjeculiar  care;  I  What's  all  the  gaudy  glitter  of  a  crown? 

{Churchill.  I  Dry  den. 

Custom  does  often  reason  overrule,  Tlio  way  to  bliss  lies  not  on  beds  of  down. 

{Rochester.  {Quarles. 

And  throw  a  cruel  sunshine  on  a  fool.  |  How  long  wo  live,  not  years  but  actions  tell ; 

(Armstrong.  {Watkins. 

Live   well— how   long    or   short   permit    to  \  Tlio  man  lives  twice  who  lives  the   first  lifo 

heaven,  {mUon.  well.  {Hcrrick. 

Tl-ipy  who  forgive  most,  shall   1)C  most  for-  \  Make,  then,   wliile   yoi  we   may,  your  God 

given.  {Bailey.  ,  your  friend,  (Mason. 

3in  may  bo  clasped  so  close  we  cannot  see  its  Whom  f!h^istilln.'^  worship,  yt  not   comprc- 

face—  (French.  \  liend.  {If^l^ 

Vile  intercourse  where  virtue  has  no  place.  j  The  trust  that's  given,  guard,  and    to   your 

{Someniille.  \  self  bo  just;  (Dana. 

fhen  keep  each  passion  down,  however  dear,  ;  For  live  we  how  wo  may,  yet  die  we  must. 

{Thompson.  \  {Shakespeare. 


THE  DYING  ALCHEMIST. 


497 


THE  DYING  ALCHEMIST. 


N.    P.    WILLIS. 


and  the 


IrHE  night-wind  with  a  desolate  moan 

swept  by, 

And  the  old  shutters  of  the   turret 
■  .•■,  "  * 

f''  swung 

Creaking  upon  their  hinges 

moon, 
As  the  torn  edges  of  the  clouds  flew 
past. 
Struggled  aslant  the  stained  and  broken  panes 
So  dimly,  that  the  watchful  eye  of  death 
Scarcely  was   conscious  when   it  went   and 

came. 
The  fire  beneath  his  crucible  was  low. 
Yet  still  it  burned  :  and  ever,  as  his  thoughts 
Grew  insupportable,  he  raised  himself 
Upon  his  wasted  arm,  and  stirred  the  coals 
With  difficult  energy ;  and  when  the  rod 
Fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  and  his  eye 
Felt  faint  within  its  socket,  he  shrank  back 
Upon  his  pallet,  and,  with  unclosed  lips. 
Muttered  a  curse  on  death  ! 

The  silent  room, 
From  its  dim  corners,  mockingly  gave  back 
His  rattling  breath  ;  the  humming  in  the  fire 
Had  the  distinctness  of  a  knell ;  and  when 
Duly  the  antique  horologe  beat  one. 
He  drew  a  phial  from  beneath  his  head, 
And  drank.      And  instantly  his  lips   com- 
pressed, 
And,  with  a  shudder  in  his  skeleton  frame, 
He  rose  with  supernatural  strength,  and  sat 
Upright,  and  communed  with  himself: 

"  I  did  not  think  to  die 
Till  I  had  finished  what  I  had  to  do  ; 
I  thought  to  pierce  th'  eternal  secret  through 

With  this  my  mortal  eye; 
I  felt, — Oh,  God !  it  seemeth  even  now — 
This  cannot  be  the  death-dew  on  my  brow  ; 

Grant  me  another  year, 
God  of  my  spirit ! — but  a  day, — to  win 
Something  to  satisfy  this  thirst  within  ' 

I  would  know  something  here ! 
Break  for  me  but  one  seal  that  is  unbroken  ! 
&peak  for  me  but  one  word  that  is  unspoken! 


"  Vain, — vain, — my  brain  is  turning 
With  a  swift  dizziness,  and  my  heart  grows 

sick. 
And  these  hot  temple-throbs  come  fast  ubJ 
thick. 
And  I  am  freezing, — burning, — 
Dying!     Oh,  God!  if  I  might  only  live! 
My  phial Ha  !   it  thrills  me, — I  reTive. 

"  Aye, — were  not  man  to  die. 
He  were  too  mighty  for  th  is  narrow  sphere ! 
Had   he   but  time  to   brood  on   knowledge 
here, — 
Could  he  but  train  his  eye, — 
Might  he   but  wait   the   m.y?tic   word   und 

hour, — 
Only  his  Maker  would  transcend  his  power ! 

"  This  were  indeed  to  feel 
The  soul-thirst  slacken  at  the  living  stream, — 
To  live.  Oh,  God !  that  life  is  but  a  dream ! 

And  death Aha  !  I  reel, — 

Dim, — dim, — I  faint,  darkness  comes  o'er  my 
eye,— 

Cover  me!  save  me! God  of  heaven! 

I  die!  " 

'Twas  morning,  and  the  old  man  lay  alone. 
No  friend  had  closed  his  eyelids,  and  his  lips. 
Open  and  ashy  pale,  th'  expression  wore 
Of  his  death  struggle.     His  long  silvery  hair 
Lay  on  his  hollow  temples,  thin  and  wild. 
His  frame  was  wasted,  and  his  features  wan 
And  haggard  as  with  want,  and  in  his  palm 
His  nails  were  driven  deep,  as  if  the  throe 
Of  the  la.st  agony  had  wrung  him  sore. 

The  storm   was   raging   still.     The    shutter 

swung. 
Creaking  as  harshly  in  the  fitful  wind. 
And  all  without  went  on, — as  aye  it  will, 
Sunshine  or  tempest,  reckless  that  a  heart 
Is  breaking,  or  has  broken,  in  its  change. 

The  fire  beneath  the  crucible  was  ou*^^  • 
Tlie  vessels  of  his  mvstic  art  lay  ronn<^ , 
Use!e.ss  and  cold  as  the  ambitious  hand 


498 


GOD'S  ACRE. 


That  fashioned  them,  and  the  small  rod, 
Familiar  to  his  touch  for  threescore  years, 
Lay  on  th'  alembic's  rim,  as  if  it  still 
Might  vex  the  elements  at  its  master's  will. 

And  thus  had  passed  from  its  unequal  frame 
A  soul  of  fire, — a  sun-bent  eagle  stricken, 
From  his   high   soaring,  down, — an  instru- 
ment 


Broken   with    its   own   compass.     Oh,   how 

poor 
Seems  the  rich  gift  of  genius,  when  it  lies, 
Like  the  adventurous  bird   that  hath  out- 

flown 
His     strength     upon     the     sea,    ambition- 
wrecked, — 
A  thing  the  thrush  might  pity,  as  she  site 
Brooding  in  quiet  on  her  lowly  nest. 


GOD'S  ACRE. 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


I, IKK  thatancien't  .Saxon  phrase  which  ,   Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  bo  cast, 

'iills  In  the  sure  faith  that  we  shall  rise  again 

Til':  burial-ground  God's   acre !     It      At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  archangel's 

is  just;  blast 

It  consecrates  each   grave   within  its  Shall  winnow,  like   a  fan    the  chafl"  and 

walla,  '  I  grain. 

And    breathes   a  Vjeninon    o'er   the 

sleeping  dust.  |  1,1 

I  Then   shall    tlio    good    stand    in    immort&i 

Ood'fl-Acre  !    Yos,  that  blessed  name  imparts  1  bloom. 

Comfort  to  those  who   in  the  grave  have  I"  the  fair  gardens  of  tliatsecon<l  birth  ; 

Hown  I  ■'^"'i   ('.&v\\    bright    blossom    niinglo    'i\»  per 

The  seed  that   they  ha/l   garnered  in  their  :  inmo 

hearts,  i       With  that  of  tlowers  which  never  bloomed 

Their  brea^l  of  life,  ala.s!  no  more  their  own.  .  ^*"  earth. 


I 


MRS.  CAUDLE'S  LECTURE  ON  SHIRT  BUTTONS.         499 

.  _ 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn  up      This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God ! 

the  sod.  This   is   the   place    where   human    harvests 

And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow ;  grow ! 


MES.  CAUDLE'S  LECTURE  ON  SHIRT  BUTTONS. 


DOUGLAS    JERROLD. 


•TIEEE  Mr.  Caudle,  I  hope  you're  in  a  little  better  temper  than  you 

were  this  morning.     There,  you  needn't  begin  to  whistle :    people 

don't  come  to  bed  to  whistle.     But  it's  just  like  you;  I  can't  speak, 

4        that  you  don't  try  to  insult  me.     Once,  I  used  to  say  you  were  the 

•I         best  creature  living :  now,  you  get  quite  a  fiend.     Do  let  you  rest  ? 

No,  I  won't  let  you  rest.     It's  the  only  time  I  have  to  talk  to  you,  and  you 

shall  hear  me.     I'm  put  upon  all  day  long:  it's  very  hard  if  I  can't  speak 

a  word  at  night;  and  it  isn't  often  I  open  my  mouth,  goodness  knows! 

Because  once  in  your  lifetime  your  shirt  wanted  a  button,  you  must 
almost  swear  the  roof  off  the  house.  You  didn't  swear  ?  Ha,  Mr.  Caudle  ! 
you  don't  know  what  you  do  when  you're  in  a  passion.  You  were  not  in 
a  passion,  wern't  you  ?  Well,  then  I  don't  know  what  a  passion  is ;  and  I 
think  I  ought  to  by  this  time.  I've  lived  long  enough  with  you,  Mr.  Cau- 
dle, to  know  that. 

It's  a  pity  you  hav'nt  something  worse  to  complain  of  than  a  button 
off  your  shirt.  If  you'd  some  wives,  you  would,  I  know.  I'm  sure  I'm 
never  without  a  needle-and-thread  in  my  hand ;  what  with  you  and  the 
children,  I'm  made  a  perfect  slave  of.  And  what's  my  thanks  ?  Why,  if 
once  in  your  life  a  button's  off  your  shirt — what  do  you  say  "  ah  "at?  I 
say  once,  Mr.  Caudle ;  or  twice  or  three  times,  at  most.  I'm  sure.  Caudle, 
no  man's  buttons  in  the  world  are  better  looked  after  than  yours.  I  only 
wish  I'd  kept  the  shirts  you  had  when  you  were  first  married  !  I  should 
like  to  know  where  were  your  buttons  then  ? 

Yes,  it  is  worth  talking  of !  But  that's  how  you  always  try  to  put 
me  down.  You  fly  into  a  rage,  and  then,  if  I  only  try  to  speak,  you  won't 
hear  me.  That's  how  you  men  always  wnll  have  all  the  talk  to  yourselves : 
a  poor  woman  isn't  allowed  to  get  a  word  in.  A  nice  notion  you  have  of  a 
^ife,  to  suppose  she's  nothing  to  think  of  but  her  husband's  buttons.  A 
pretty  notion,  indeed,  you  have  of  marriage.  Ha !  if  poor  women  only 
knew  what  they  had  to  go  through !  What  with  buttons,  and  one  thing 
and  another  !     They'd  never  tie  themselves  to  the  best  man  in  the  world, 


500 


NO  SECTS  IN  HEAVEN. 


I'm  sure.  What  would  they  do,  Mr.  Caudle? — Why,  do  much  better 
without  you,  I'm  certain. 

And  it's  my  belief,  after  all,  that  the  button  wasn't  off  the  shirt ;  it's 
my  belief  that  you  pulled  it  off,  that  you  might  have  something  to  talk 
about.  Oh,  you're  aggravating  enough,  when  you  like,  for  anything  !  All 
I  know  is,  it's  very  odd  the  button  should  be  off  the  shirt ;  for  I'm  sure  no 
woman's  a  greater  slave  to  her  husband's  buttons  than  I  am.  I  only  say 
it's  very  odd. 

However,  there's  one  comfort ;  it  can't  last  long.  I'm  worn  to  death 
with  your  temper,  and  shan't  trouble  you  a  great  while.  Ha,  you  may 
laugh  !  And  I  dare  say  you  would  laugh  !  I've  no  doubt  of  it !  That's 
your  love ;  that's  your  feeling  !  I  know  that  I'm  sinking  every  day,  though 
I  say  nothing  about  it.  And  when  I'm  gone,  we  shall  see  how  your  second 
wife  will  look  after  your  buttons !  You'll  find  out  the  difference,  then. 
Yes,  Caudle,  you'll  think  of  me,  then  ;  for  then,  I  hope,  you'll  never  have  a 
blessed  button  to  your  back. 


NO  SECTS  IN  HE  A  VEN. 


^y^ 


!•■ 


i.VLKING  of  sects  till  late  one  eve, 
'  U"  variousdoctrines  the  saints  believe, 
Tliat  night  I  stood,   in  a  troubled 

dream, 
By    the   side   of   i.   darkly   flowing 
stream. 


And  a  "  Churchman      down   to  the  river 

came  : 

When  I  heard  a  strange  voice  call  his  name, 

"  Good  father,  stop  ;  when  you  cross  the  tide. 

You  mustt  leave  your  robes  on  the  other  side." 

But  the  aged  father  did  nol  mind  ; 
And  his  long  gown  floatwl  out  boliind, 
As  down  to  the  stream  liis  way  lie  took, 
His  pale  hands  clasping  a  gilt-edged  book. 

"  I'm    boun<I    for    heaven  ;     and    wlicii     I'm 

there, 
Shall  want  ray  Book  of  Common  Prayer  ; 
And,  though  I  put  on  a  starry  crown, 
I  shouid  leei  quite  lost  without  my  gown." 

Tli''n  h''  fixi'd  Ills  eyes  on  the  sliining  track, 
But  his  ^own  was  hf^avy  and  li'ld  liirn  leu  k. 


And  the  poor  old  father  tried  in  vain 
A  single  step  in  the  flood  to  gain. 

I  saw  him  again  on  the  other  side. 
But  his  silk  gown  floated  on  the  tide; 
And  lio  one  asked  in  that  blissful  spot, 
Whether  he  'belcToed    to   the  "Church"  or 
not. 

Then  down  to  the  river  a  Quaker  strayed; 
His  dress  of  a  sober  hue  was  inado ; 
'  My  coat  and  hat  must  all  be  gray — 
I  cannot  go  any  other  way." 

Tlu'ti  he  biittonod  his  coat  straij^lit  up  to  iii 

chin, 
Ami  staidly,  solemnly  wadi'd  in 
And  his  broad  brimmed  hat   he  pulh'd  'lown 

tight, 
Over  his  forohi'iid  so  cdM  and  white. 

But  a  strong  wind  carried  away  his  hat ; 
A  moment  ho  silently  sighed  ovor  that; 
And  then,  as  lie  gaznd  to  the  further  shore, 
Thf'  coiit  slipped  off,  and  was  seen  no  more. 


k 


No  SECTS  IN  HEAVEN. 


501 


As  he  entered  heaven  his  suit  of  gray 
Went  quietly,  sailing,  away,  away  ; 
And  none  of  the  angels  questioned  him 
About  the  width  of  his  beaver's  brim. 

Next    came   Dr.    Watts,  with    a    Imndle    of 

psalms 
Tied  nicely  up  in  his  aged  arms. 
And  hymns  as  many,  a  very  wise  thing, 
That   the  people   in    heaven,  "  all  round," 

might  sing. 

But  I  thought  that  he  heaved  an   anxious 

sigh. 
And   he  saw  that  the  river  ran  broad  and 

high. 
And  looked  rather  surprised,  as  one  by  one 
The  psalms  and   hymns  in  the  wave  went 

down. 

And  after  him,  with  his  MSS., 
Came  Wesley,  the  pattern  of  goodliness  ; 
But  he  cried,  "  Dear  me  !  what  shall  I  do? 
The  water   has  soaked    them    through  and 
through." 

And  there  on  the  river  far  and  wide. 
Away  they  went  down  the  swollen  tide  ; 
And   the    saint,   astonished,  passed  through 

alone, 
Without  his  manuscripts,  uji  to  the  throne. 

Then,  gravely  walking,  two  saints  by  name 
Down  to  the  stream  together  came ; 
But,  as  they  stopped  at  the  river's  brink, 
I  saw  one  saint  from  the  other  shrink. 

"  Sprinkled  or  plunged  ?     may   I   ask    you, 

friend, 
How  you  attained  to  life's  great  end  ?" 
"  T/ius,  with  a  few  drops  on  my  brow." 
"  But  I  have  been  dipped,  as  you'll  see  me 

now, 

"  And  I  really  think  it  will  hardly  do, 

As   I'm   '  close   communion,'    to    cross  with 

you, 
You're  bound,  I  know,  to  the  realms  of  bliss, 
But  you  must  go  that  way,  and  I'll  go  this." 

Then    straightway   plunging   with    all    his 
might, 


Away  to  the  left — his  friend  to  the  right, 
Apart  they  went  from  this  world  of  sin, 
But  at  last  together  they  entered  in. 

And  now,  when  the  river  was  rolling  on, 

A  Presbyterian  Church  went  down  ; 

Of    women    there    seemed    an   innumerable 

throng. 
But  the  men   I  could  count  as  they  passed 

along. 

And  concerning  the  road,  thf-y  could   never 

agree 
The  old  or  the  new  way,  which  it  could  be. 
Nor  ever  a  moment  paused  to  think 
That  both  would  lead  to  the  river's  brink. 

And  a  sound  of  murmuring,  long  and  loud. 
Came  ever  up  from  the  moving  crowd  ; 
"You're  in  the  old  way,  and  I'm  in  the  new  ; 
That  is  the  false,  and  this  is  the  true" — 
Or,  "  I'm  in  the  old  way,  and  you're  in  the 

new ; 
That  is  the  false,  and  thk  is  the  true." 

But  the  brethren  only  seemed  to  speak : 
Modest  the  sisters  walked  and  meek. 
And  if  ever  one  of  them  chanced  to  say 
What  troubles  she  met  with  on  the  way, 
How  she  longed  to  pass  to  the  other  side. 
Nor  feared  to  cross  over  the  swelling  tide, 

A  voice  arose  from  the  brethren  then, 
"  Let  no  one  speak  but  the  '  holy  men  ; ' 
For  have  ye  not  heard  the  words  of  Paul, 
'  Oh,  let  the  women  keep  silence  all  ?'  " 

I  watched  them  long  in  my  curious  dream. 
Till  they  stood  by  the  borders  of  the  stream; 
Then,  just  as  I  thought,  the  two  ways  met; 
But  all  the  brethren  were  talking  yet, 
And  would  talk  on  till  the  heaving  tide 
Carried  them  over  side  by  side — 
Side  bj-  side,  for  the  way  was  one ; 
The  toilsome  journey  of  life  was  done-, 
And  all  who  in  Christ  the  Saviour  died, 
Came  out  alike  on  the  other  side. 

No  forms  of  crosses  or  books  had  they ; 
No  gowns  of  silk  or  suits  of  gray ; 
No  creeds  to  guide  them,  or  MSS. ; 
For  all  had  put  on  Christ's  righteousnesa. 


502 


Jewish  hymn  in  Jerusalem. 


EVENING  BRINGS  US  HOME. 


,n^ 


g|^K|PON  the  hills  the  wind  is  sharj)  and  ;  We  have  been  wounded  by  the  hunter's  dart^ , 
'    '         cold,  Our  eyes  are  heavy,  and  our  hearts 

The  sweet  young  grasses  wither  on  \  Search  for  Thy  coming  ; — when  ths  light  de- 
parts 


w  the  wold, 


And  we,  O  Lord !    have  wandered 
from  thy  fold ; 
But  evening  brings  us  home. 


At  evening,  bring  us  home  ! 


The  darkness  gathers.     Through  the  gloom 

no  star 

Among  the  mists  we  stumbled,  and  the  rocks  |  Rises  to  guide  us  ;  we  have  wandered  far ; — 

Where  the  brown  lichen  whitens,  and  the  fox      Without  Thy  lamp  we  know  not  where  we 

Watches    the    straggler   from   the  scattered  i  are ; 

flocks ;  I  At  evening,  bring  us  home ! 

But  evening  brings  us  home. 

The  clouds  are  round  us,  and  the  snow-drift*) 

The  sharp  thorns  prick  us,   and  our  tender  \  thicken. 

feet  0,  thou  dear  Shepherd  !  leave  us  not  to  sicken 

Are  cut  and  bleeding,  and  the  lambs  repeat        In   the   waste   night  ;     our   tardy   footsteps 

Their  pitiful  complaints  ; — Oh,  rest  is  sweet     i  quicken  ; 

When  evening  brings  us  home  !  At  evening,  bring  us  home. 


JEWISH  HYMN  IN  JERUSALEM. 


HENRY    HART    MILMAN. 


.r:l}T^ 


!0D  of  the  thunder  !  from  whose  cloudy  I  And  fountains  sparkle  in  iho  arid  sands, 

seat  And  timbrels  ring  in  maidens' glancing  hands. 

The  fiery  winds  of  desolation  flow  ;       And  marble  cities  crown  tlie  laughing  lauds, 
^''f     Father  of  vengeance !  that  witli  p>ir-  And  pillared  temples  rise  thy  name  to  bless. 

*  pie  feet 

j  Like  a  full  wine-press  tread'st  the      O'er    Judah's    land    tiiy    iliundiis    broke,  0 

world  below ; 
The  embattled  armies  witli  thy  sign 
to  slay. 
Nor  springs  the  beast  of  havoc  on  his  prey, 
Nor    withering     Famine    walks  his    l)la8tpd 


way. 


Lord! 
The  chariot,s  rattled  o'er  lur  sunken  gate, 
Iler    sons    were  waste<l    by    tlie    Assyrian's 
sword, 
Even  her  foes  wept  to  see  her  faUcn  stale  ; 
And  heaps  her  ivory  jialaces  became, 


Till  thou  hast  rniirk<-d  tlir?  guilty  land   for  \  Her  princes  wore  the  captive's  garb  of  shame, 
Wf)e.  I  Iler  temi)le8  sank  amid  the  smouldering  flame. 

For  Ihou  didst  ride  the  tempest  cloud  of 
fatr-. 


God  of  the  rainbow!  at  whose  graciou.s  sign 
The  billows  of  the  proud  their  rage  sup- 
preas ; 

Father  of  mercies!  at  one  wor<l  of  thine 
Ad  Eden  blooms  in  the  waste  wildern<'HS, 


O'er  Judah's  land   tJiy   rainlmw,    liord,  shall 
beam, 
And  thf  sad  City  lift  h^r  rrnwn^'ss  beail, 


IMPROVING  ON  NATURE. 


503 


And  songs  sliall  wake  and  dancing  footsteps 
gleam 
In  streets  where  broods  the  silence  of  the 
dead. 
The  sun  shall  shine  on  Salem's  gilded  towers, 
On  Carmel's  side  our  maidens  cull  the  flowers 
To  deck  at  blushing  eve  their  bridal  bowers, 
And  angel  feet  the  glittering  Sion  tread. 

Thy  vengeance  gave  us  to  the  stranger's  hand, 

And  Abraham's  children  were  led  forth  for 

slaves. 

With  fettered  steps  we  left  our  pleasant  land, 

Envying  our  fathers  in  their  peaceful  graves. 

The  strangers'  bread  with  bitter  tears  we  steep, 

And  when  our  weary  eyes  should  sink  to  sleep, 

In  the  mute  midnight  we  steal  forth  to  weep, 


Where  the  pale  willows  shade  Euphratoi 
waves. 

The  born  in  sorrow  shall  bring  forth  in  joy  ; 
Thy  mercy.  Lord,  shall  lead  thy  cliildren 
home ; 
He  that  went  forth  a  tender  jirattling  boy 
Yet,  ere  he  die,  to  Salem's  streets  shall 
come ; 
And  Canaan's  vines  for  us  their  fruits  shall 

bear,^ 
And  Hermon's  bees  their  honeyed  stores  pre- 
pare, 
And    we    shall    kneel    again    in    thankful 
prayer. 
Where  o'er  the  cherub-seated  God  full  blaz- 
ed the  irradiate  throne. 


IMPROVING  ON  NATURE. 


JOHN    RUSKIN. 


|T  was  a  maxim  of  RafFaelle's  that  the  artist's  object  was  to  make  things 
^    not  as  Nature  makes  them,  but  as  she  would  make  them  ;  as  she  ever 
tries  to  make  them,  but  never  succeeds,  though  her  aim  may  be  de- 
duced from  a  comparison  other  effects;  just  as  if  a  number  of  archers 
I      had  aimed  unsuccessfully  at  a  mark  upon  a  wall,  and  this  mark  were 
1       then  removed,  we  could  by  an  examination  of  their  arrow-marks  point 
out  the  probable  position  of  the  spot  aimed  at,  with  a  certainty  of  being 
nearer  to  it  than  any  of  their  spots. 

%  We  have  most  of  us  heard  of  original  sin,  and  may  perhaps,  in  our 
modest  moments,  conjecture  that  we  are  not  quite  what  God,  or  Nature, 
would  have  us  to  be.  Raffaelle  Aac?  something  to  mend  in  humanity:  I 
should  like  to  have  seen  him  mending  a  daisy,  or  a  pease-blossom,  or  a  moth, 
or  a  mustard-seed,  or  any  other  of  God's  slightest  work  !  If  he  had  accom- 
plished that,  one  might  have  found  for  him  more  respectable  employment, 
to  set  the  stars  in  better  order,  perhaps  (they  seem  grievously  scattered  as 
they  are,  and  to  be  of  all  manner  of  shapes  and  sizes,  except  the  ideal  shape, 
and  the  proper  size) ;  or,  to  give  us  a  corrected  view  of  the  ocean,  that  at 
least  seems  a  very  irregular  and  improvable  thing:  the  very  fishermen  do 
not  know  this  day  how  far  it  will  reach,  driven  up  before  the  west  wind. 
Perhaps  some  one  else  does,  but  that  is  not  our  business.     Let  us  go  down 


504 


STABAT  MATER. 


and  stand  on  the  bea^jh  by  the  sea — the  great  irregular  sea,  and  coun^ 
whether  the  thunder  of  it  is  not  out  of  time — one, — two: — here  comes  a 
well-formed  wave  at  last,  trembling  a  little  at  the  top,  but  on  the  whole, 
orderly.  So !  Crash  among  the  shingle,  and  up  as  far  as  this  gray  pebble  ! 
Now,  stand  by  and  watch.  Another; — Ah,  careless  wave!  why  couldn't 
you  have  kept  your  crest  on  ?  It  is  all  gone  away  into  spray,  striking  up 
against  the  cliffs  there — I  thought  as  much — missed  the  mark  by  a  couple 
of  feet!  Another: — How  now,  impatient  one  !  couldn't  you  have  waited 
till  your  friend's  reflux  was  done  with,  instead  of  rolling  yourself  up  with 
it  in  that  unseemly  manner  ?  You  go  for  nothing.  A  fourth,  and  a  goodly 
one  at  last !  What  think  we  of  yonder  slow  rise,  and  crystalline  hollow, 
without  a  flaw  ?  Steady,  good  wave !  not  so  fast !  not  so  fast !  Where 
are  you  coming  to  ?  This  is  too  bad;  two  yards  over  the  mark,  and  ever  so 
much  of  you  in  our  face  besides;  and  a  wave  we  had  so  much  hope  of,  behind 
there,  broken  all  to  pieces  out  at  sea,  and  laying  a  great  white  tablecloth 
of  foam  all  the  wav  to  the  shore,  as  if  the  marine  gods  were  to  dine  off  it ! 
Alas,  for  these  unhappy  "  arrow-shots  "  of  Nature  !  She  will  never  hit  her 
mark  with  those  unruly  waves  of  her's,  nor  get  one  of  them  into  the  ideal 
shape,  if  we  wait  for  a  thousand  years. 


STABAT  MATER. 


TRANSLATION    uF    DR.    ABKAUAM    COLES. 


^(CpTOOD  th'  aflBicted  Mother  weeping, 
Near  the  cross  her  station  kee{)ing, 

Whereon  hung  her  Son  and  Lord ; 
Through  whose  spirit  sympathizing, 
Sorrowing  and  agonizing, 

Also  passed  the  cruel  sword. 

0  how  mournful  and  distressed 
Wa'<  that  favored  and  most  blessed 

Mother  of  the  Only  Son  ! 
Tninhling,  grieving,  bosom  heaving, 
While  perceiving,  scarfo  believing, 

Pains  of  that  Illustrious  One. 

Who  the  man,  who,  called  a  brother. 
Would  n"t  weep,  saw  ho  Chrint's  mother 

In  such  dee[i  distresH  and  wild  ? 
Who  could  not  sad  tribute  render 
Witnes<ing  that  mother  tender 

Agonizing  with  her  Child? 


For  His  pfople's  sin  atoning 

Him  she  saw  in  torments  groaning, 

Given  to  the  scourge's  rod  ; 
\  Saw  her  darling  offspring,  dying 
Desolate,  forsaken,  crying. 

Yield  His  spirit  up  to  God. 

Make  me  feel  thj'  sorrow's  power, 
That  with  thee  I  tears  may  shower, 

Tender  Mother,  fount  of  love  ! 
Make  my  heart  with  love  unceasing 
Burn  toward  Christ  the  Lord,  that  pleasing 

I  may  be  to  Him  above. 

Holy  Mother,  this  be  granted. 

That  the  Slain  One's  wounds  be  idanted 

Firmly  in  my  heart  to  bide. 
Of  Him  wr)unded,  all  astounded, — 
Depths  tinboundefl  for  me  sounded, — 

All  the  pangs  with  mo  divide. 


EVANGELINE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 


505 


Make  me  weep  with  thee#in  union  ; 
With  the  Crucified,  communion, 

In  His  grief  and  suflfering  give  . 
Near  the  cross  with  tears  unfailing 
I  would  join  thee  in  thy  wailing 

Here  as  long  as  I  shall  live. 

Maid  of  maidens,  all  excelling. 
Be  not  bitter,  me  repelling, 

Make  thou  me  a  mourner,  too ; 
Make  me  bear  about  Christ's  dying, 
Share  His  passion,  shame  defying. 

All  His  wounds  in  me  renew  ; 


Wound  for  wound  be  there  created  ; 
With  the  Cross  intoxicated 

For  thy  Son's  dear  sake,  I  pray — 
May  I,  fired  with  pure  affection. 
Virgin,  have  llaxmgh  thee  protection 

In  the  solemn  Judgment  Day. 

Let  me  by  the  Cross  be  warded. 
By  the  death  of  Christ  be  guarded  ; 

Nourished  by  divine  supplies. 
When  the  body  death  hath  riven, 
Grant  that  to  the  soul  be  given, 

Glories  bright  of  Paradise. 


EVANGELINE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 


.ov';|:tc%. 


H.    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


Beautiful  was  the  night.     Behind 
the  black  wall  of  the  forest, 
Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose 

the  moon.     On  the  river 
Fell   here   and    there    through    the 
branches  a  tremulous  gleam  of 
the  moonlight, 
Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  dark- 
ened and  devious  spirit. 

Nearer  and  round  about  her,  the  manifold 

flowers  of  the  garden 
Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were 

their  prayers  and  confessions 
Unto  the  night,  as  it  went  its  way,  like  a 

silent  Carthusian. 
Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy 

with  shadows  and  night  dews, 
Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.     The  calm 

and  the  magical  moonlight 
Seemed  to  inundate  her  soul  with  indefinable 

longings, 
As,  through  the  garden  gate,   and  beneath 

the  shade  of  the  oak-trees. 
Passed  she  along  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the 

measureless  prairie. 

Silent  it  lay,  with  a  silvery  haze  upon  it,  and 
fire-flies 


Gleaming  and  floating  away  in  mingled  and 

infinite  numbers. 
Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of  God 

in  the  heavens. 
Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased 

to  marvel  and  worship, 
Save  when  a  blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the 

walls  of  tliar  temple, 


As  if  a  hand  had  appeared  and  written  ufon 
them,  "  Upharsin." 

And  the  soul  of  the    maiden,  between  the 

stars  and  the  fire-flies, 
Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried.  ''  0  Gabriel ! 

0  my  beloved ! 


506 


POLITICAL  AGITATION. 


Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I  cannot 

behold  thee? 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  th"  voice 

does  not  reach  me  ? 
Ah !  how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path 

to  the  prairie! 
Ah  !  how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on  the 

woodlands  around  me ! 
Ah  !  how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning 

from  labor. 
Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream  of 

me  in  thy  slumbers. 


WTien  shall  these  eyes  behold,  these  arms  bo 
folded  about  thee  ?  " 

Loud  and  sudden  and   near  the   note  of  ^ 
whippoorwill  soun'ded 

Like  a  flute  in  the  woods  ;  and  anon,  through 
the  neighboring  thickets, 

Farther   and    farther    away  it   floated   and 
dropped  into  silence. 

"  Patience  !  "  whispered  the  oaks  from  oracu- 
lar caverns  of  dajkness  ; 

And,  from  the  moonlit  meadow,  a  sigh  re 
sponded,  "  To-morrow  I  " 


NO. 


'h. 


THOMAS   HOOD. 


-^^ 


sun — no  moon ! 

No  morn — no  noon — 
No  dawn — no  dust — no  proper  time 
of  day — 
No  sky — no  earthly  view — 
No  distance  looking  blue — 
No   road — no   street — no   "  t'other   side   the 
way" — 
No  end  to  any  Row — 
No  indication  where  the  Crescents 

go— 
No  top  to  any  steeple — 
No  recognitions  of  familiar  people — 

No  courtesies  for  showing  'em — 


No  knowing  'em — 
No  traveling  at  all — no  locomotion. 
No  inkling  of  the  way — no  notion — 

"  No  go  " — by  land  or  ocean- 
No  mail — no  post — 
No  news  from  any  foreign  coast— 
No  park — no  ring — no  afternoon  gentility — 

No  company — no  nobility — 
No   warmth,   no   cheerfulness,  no  healthful 
ease. 
No  comfortable  feel  in  any  member — 
No  shade,  no  sliine,  no  butterflies,  no  bees, 
No  fruit,  no  flowers,  no  leaves,  no  birds, 
November  I 


POLITICAL  AGITATION. 


WENDELL   PHILLIPS. 


'TjL  liail,  rublic  0{)inioii  !  To  be  sure,  it  is  a  dangerous  thing  under 
wliich  to  live.  It  iHilcs  to-day  in  tlio  desire  to  obey  all  kinds  of 
laws,  and  takes  your  lite.  It  rules  ug.iin  in  the  love  of  liberty, 
an<l  rescues  Rliadracli  IVom  Boston  (!ourt  IIuuso.  It  rules  to-mor- 
row in  the  manhood  of  him  who  l<;ads  (he  musket  to  shoot  down 
— God  be  praised  ! — the  m.iii-hunter  Gorsu'li.  It  rules  in  Syracuse^  and 
the  slave  escapes  to  Canad:i.     [(  is  om-  intcrcyl  to  cducab^  this  people  in 


THE  RANGER.  597 


humanity,  and  in  deep  reverence  for  the  rights  of  the  lowest  and  humblest 
individual  that  makes  up  our  numbers.  Each  man  here,  in  fact,  holds  his 
property  and  his  life  dependent  on  the  constant  presence  of  an  agitation 
like  this  of  anti-slavery.  Eternal  vigilance  is  the  price  of  liberty  :  power 
is  ever  stealing  from  the  many  to  the  few.  The  manna  of  popular  liberty 
must  be  gathered  each  day,  or  it  is  rotten.  The  living  sap  of  to-day  out- 
grows the  dead  rind  of  yesterday.  The  hand  intrusted  with  power,  be- 
comes either  from  human  depravity  or  esprit  de  corps,  the  necessary 
enemy  of  the  people.  Only  by  continual  oversight  can  the  democrat  in 
office  be  prevented  from  hardening  into  a  despot;  only  by  unintermitted 
agitation  can  a  people  be  kept  sufficiently  awake  to  principle  not  to  let 
liberty  be  smothered  in  material  prosperity. 

All  clouds,  it  is  said,  have  sunshine  behind  them,  and  all  evils  have 
some  good  result;  so  slavery,  by  the  necessity  of  its  abolition,  has  saved 
the  freedom  of  the  white  race  from  being  melted  in  the  luxury  or  buried 
beneath  the  gold  of  its  own  success.  Never  look,  therefore,  for  an  age 
when  the  people  can  be  quiet  and  safe.  At  such  times  Despotism,  like  a 
shrouding  mist,  steals  over  the  mirror  of  Freedom.  The  Dutch,  a  thou- 
sand years  ago,  built  against  the  ocean  their  bulwarks  of  willow  and  mud. 
Do  they  trust  to  that  ?  No.  Each  year  the  patient,  industrious  peasant 
gives  so  much  time  from  the  cultivation  of  his  soil  and  the  care  of  his  chil- 
dren to  stop  the  breaks  and  replace  the  willow  which  insects  have  eaten, 
that  he  may  keep  the  land  his  fathers  rescued  from  the  water,  and  bid 
defiance  to  the  waves  that  roar  above  his  head,  as  if  demanding  back  the 
broad  fields  man  has  stolen  from  their  realm. 


THE  RANGER. 


JOHN   G.  WHITTIER. 


Robert  RawUn  l— Frosts  were  falling  [  Where  the  lion  crouching  high  on 

^'^"  When  the  ranger's  horn  was  calling,  Abraham's  rock  with  teeth  of  iron, 

Through  the  woods  to  Canada.  [           Qj^^^g  ^.^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^^y_ 

Gone  the  winter's  sleet  and  snowing,  \  -m  ■   ,^     ,-,                  ■        j-       ■  , 

,   ,     ,       T  , ,  *  aintly  thence,  as  pines  far  sighing, 

Gone  the  spnne-time  s  bud  and  blow-  \  ^         ,       ,             ,       ,  ,   . 

Or  as  thunder  spent  and  dying, 

r,        .■>                  .1,          .           •  Come  the  challenee  and  replying. 

Gone  the  summer  e  harvest  mowing,  °               r  j     &• 

And  again  the  fields  aro  gray.  ^«'"«  ^^e  sounds  of  Bight  and  fray. 

Yet  away,  he's  away  !  Well-a-day  !  Hope  and  pray ! 

Faint  and  fainter  hope  is  growing  Some  are  living,  some  are  lying 

In  the  hearts  that  mourn  his  stay.  I           In  their  red  graves  far  away. 


50S 


THI  RANGER. 


Straggling  rangers,  worn  witli  dangers, 
Homeward  faring,  weary  strangers 

Pass  the  farm-gate  on  their  way  ; 
Tidings  of  the  dead  and  living. 
Forest  march  and  ambu^-lj,  giving, 


On  the  grain-lands  of  the  mainlands 
Stands  a  serried  corn  like  train-bands, 
Plume  and  pennon  rustling  gay ; 
Out  at  sea,  the  islands  wooded, 
Silver  birches,  golden  hooded, 


Till  the  maidens  leave  their  weaving, 
And  the  lads  forget  tlieir  play. 
"Still  away,  still  away!  " 

Sighs  a  sad  one,  sick  with  grieving, 
"  Why  does  Robert  still  delay?" 

Nowhere  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer. 
Does  the  golden-locked  fruit-bearer 

Through  his  jiaintfid  woodlands  stray, 
Than  where  hillside  oaks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long,  blue  reaches, 
Silent  coves  and  jx-lfbl'Ml  l)eachofl, 

And  green  islcH  of  Caflco  Bay  ; 

Nowhere  day,  for  delay. 
With  a  tenderer  look  beseochoH, 

"  Let  me  with  my  charinid  eaith  Kt;iy, 


Set  with  maples,  crimson-blooded, 

"White  sea-foam  and  sand-hills  gray, 
Stretch  away,  far  away. 

Dim  and  dream}',  over-brooded 
By  the  hazy  autumn  day. 

Gayly  chattering  to  the  clattering 

Of  the  brown  niits  downward  jiattering, 

Leap  the  squirrels,  rod  and  gray. 
On  (he  grasH-liind,  on  the  fallow, 
Drop  the  api)li'H,  nd  and  yellow, 
Droj)  the  rusH(^t  jioars  and  mellow. 

Drop  the  rod  loaves  all  the  day. 

And  away,  swift  away, 
Sun  mid  cloud,  o'er  liill  ;nid  IimH.iw 

(.'basing,  weave  tli<ir  wb  d  play. 


THE  RANGER. 


609 


"Martha  Mason,  Martha  Mason, 
Prithee  tell  us  of  the  reason. 

Why  YOU  mope  at  homo  to-day  : 
Surely  smiling  is  not  sinning; 
Leave  your  quilling,  leave  your  spinning 
What  is  all  your  store  of  linen. 

If  your  heart  is  never  gay  ? 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Never  yet  Jid  sad  beginning 

Make  the  task  of  life  a  play." 

Over-bending,  till  slie'.s  blending 
With  the  flaxen  skein  she's  tending. 

Pale  brown  tresses  smoothed  away 
From  her  face  of  patient  sorrow, 
Sits  she,  seeking  but  to  borrow, 
From  the  trembling  hope  of  morrow. 

Solace  for  the  weary  day. 

"  Go  your  way,  laugh  and  play  ; 
Unto  him  who  heeds  the  sparrow 

And  the  lily,  let  me  praj\" 

"  With  our  rally  rings  the  valley, — 
Join  us  !  "  cried  the  blue-eyed  Nelly  ; 


".loin  us!  "  cried  the  laughing  May 
'■  To  the  beach  we  all  are  going. 
And,  to  save  the  task  of  rowing, 
West  by  north  the  wind  is  blowing, 

Blowing  briskly  down  the  bay ! 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Time  and  tide  are  swiftly  flowing, 

Let  us  take  them  while  we  may ! 

"  Never  tell  us  that  you'll  fail  us, 
^Tiere  the  purple  beach-plum  mellows 

On  the  bluffs  so  wild  and  gray. 
Hasten,  for  the  oars  are  falling; 
Hark,  our  merry  mates  are  calling: 
Tim 3  it  is  that  we  were  all  in, 

Singing  tideward  down  the  bay !  " 

"  Nay,  nay,  let  me  stay  ; 


lore  and  sad  for  Robert  Rawlin 

Is  my  heart,"  she  said,  "  to-day. ' 

"  Vain  your  calling  for  Rob  Rawlin ! 
Some  red  squaw  his  rnoose-rneat's  broiling, 


Or  some  French  lass,  singing  gay  ; 
Just  forget  as  he's  forgetting  ; 
What  avails  a  life  of  fretting  ? 
If  some  stars  must  needs  be  setting, 

Others  rise  as  good  as  they." 

"  Cease,  I  pray  ;  go  your  way !  " 
Martha  cries,  her  eyelids  wetting; 

"  Foul  and  false  the  words  you  say  l' 

"Martha  Mason,  hear  to  reason ! 
Prithee,  put  a  kinder  face  on  !  " 

"  Cease  to  vex  me,"  did  she  say  ; 
"  Better  at  his  side  be  lying. 
With  the  mournful  pine-trees  sighing, 
And  the  wild-birds  o'er  us  crying, 

Than  to  doubt  like  mine  a  prey, 

While  away,  far  away, 
Turns  my  heart,  forever  trying 

Some  new  hope  for  each  new  day. 

"  When  the  shadows  veil  the  meadows, 
And  the  sunset's  golden  ladders. 

Sink  from  twilight's  walls  of  gray, 
From  the  window  of  my  dreaming 
I  can  see  his  sickle  gleaming, 
Cheery- voiced,  can  hear  him  teaming. 

Down  the  locust  shadeu  way ; 

But  awaj',  swift  away, 
Fades  the  fond,  delusive  seeming, 

An<l  I  kneel  again  to  pray. 

"  When  the  growing  dawn  is  showing, 
And  the  barn-yard  cock  is  crowing. 

And  the  horned  moon  pales  away. 
From  a  dream  of  him  awaking. 
Every  sound  my  heart  is  making. 
Seems  a  footstep  of  his  taking; 


510 


JIM  SMILEY'S  FROG. 


Then  I  hush  the  thought,  and  say, 
Nay,  nay,  he's  away ! 
Ah !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  breaking 
For  the  dear  one  far  away." 

Look  up,  Martha !  worn  and  swarthy. 
Glows  a  face  of  manhood  worthy  ; 

"Robert!"  "Martha'"  all  thev  =av. 


When  such  lovers  meet  each  other, 
Why  should  prying  idlers  stay  ' 

Quench  the  timbers  fallen  embers, 
Quench  the  red  leaves  in  December's 

Hoary  rime  and  chilly  spray. 
But  the  hearth  shall  kindle  clearer, 
Household  welcomes  sound  sincertr, 


O'er  went  wheel  and  reel  together. 
Little  cared  the  owner  whither ; 
Heart  of  lead,  is  heart  of  feather, 

Noon  of  night  is  noon  of  day  ! 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 


Hea,i  1  tu  luviiig  In-art  draw  nearer. 
When  the  bridal  bells  shall  say: 
"Hope  and  pray,  trust  alway  ; 

Life  is  sweeter,  love  is  dearer, 
For  the  trial  and  delay  I" 


JIM  SMILEY'S  FROG. 


SAMni:L    I-.  rLF-:MENS. 

["T^IJ^KLL,  tliis  yor  Smiley  luul  rat-tarriora,  and  chicken-cod<F,  and  aU 

•i*,.*a/     tliom  kind  of  thini'H,  till  you  couldn't  reat,  and  you  couldn't  fetch 

P^^      notliinj^  for  him  to  bnton  hut  ho'd  match  you.     lie  kotchod  a  frog 

T  one  day,  .'irid  took  liirn  homr;,  and  .said  he  carklatcil   to  ciorcate 


JIM  SMILfiY'S  FROG.  5^2 


him;  and  so  he  never  done  nothing  for  three  months  but  set  in  hi,s 
back  yard  and  learn  that  frog  to  jump.  And  you  bet  he  did  learn 
him,  too.  He'd  give  him  a  little  punch  behind,  and  the  next  minute 
you'd  see  that  frog  whirling  in  the  air  like  a  doughnut, — see  him  turn  one 
summerset,  or  maybe  a  couple,  if  he  got  a  good  start,  and  come  down  flat- 
footed  and  all  right,  like  a  cat.  He  got  him  up  so  in  the  matter  of  catching 
flies,  and  kept  him  in  practice  so  constant,  that  he'd  nail  a  fly  every  time 
as  far  as  he  could  see  him.  Smiley  said  all  a  frog  wanted  was  education, 
and  he  could  do  most  anything;  and  I  believe  him.  Why,  I've  seen  him 
set  Dan'l  Webster  down  here  on  this  floor, — Dan'l  Webster  was  the  name 
of  the  frog,— and  sing  out,  "  Flies,  Dan'l,  flies,"  and  quicker'n  you  could 
wink  he'd  spring  straight  up,  and  snake  a  fly  off'n  the  counter  there,  and 
flop  down  on  the  floor  again,  as  solid  as  a  gob  of  mud,  and  fall  to  scratching 
the  side  of  his  head  with  his  hind  foot  as  indifferent  as  if  he  hadn't  no  idea 
he'd  been  doing  any  more'n  any  frog  might  do.  You  never  see  a  frog  so 
modest  and  straightfor'ard  as  he  was,  for  all  he  was  so  gifted.  And  when 
it  came  to  fair  and  square  jumping  on  a  dead  level,  he  could  get  over  more 
ground  at  one  straddle  than  any  animal  of  his  breed  you  ever  see.  Jump, 
ing  on  a  dead  level  was  his  strong  suit,  you  understand ;  and  when  it  come 
to  that,  Smiley  would  ante  up  money  on  him  as  long  as  he  had  a  red. 
Smiley  was  monstrous  proud  of  his  frog,  and  well  he  might  be,  for  fellers 
that  had  travelled  and  been  every wheres,  all '  said  he  laid  over  any  frog 
that  ever  theij  see. 

Well,  Smiley  kept  the  beast  in  a  little  lattice  box,  and  he  used  to  fetch 
him  down  town  sometimes,  and  lay  for  a  bet.  One  day  a  feller, — a  stran- 
ger in  the  camp,  he  was, — came  across  him  with  his  box,  and  says : 

"  What  might  it  be  that  you've  got  in  the  box  ?" 

And  Smiley  says,  sorter  indifferent  like,  "  It  might  be  a  parrot,  or  it 
might  be  a  canary,  may  be,  but  it  ain't, — it's  only  just  a  frog." 

And  the  feller  took  it,  and  looked  at  it  careful,  and  turned  it 
round  this  way  and  that,  and  says,  ''  H'm !  so  'tis.  Well,  what's  he  good 
for?" 

"  Well,"  Smiley  says,  easy  and  careless,  "  he's  good  enough  for  one 
thing,  I  should  judge, — he  can  outjump  any  frog  in  Calaveras  county." 

The  feller  took  the  box  again,  and  took  another  long  particular  look, 
and  gave  it  back  to  Smiley,  and  says,  very  deliberate,  "  Well,  I  don't  see 
no  p'ints  about  that  frog  that's  any  better'n  any  other  frog." 

"  May  be  you  don't,"  Smiley  says.  "  May  be  you  understand  frogs, 
and  may  be  you  don't  understand  'em;  may  be  you've  had  experience,  and 
may    be  you  an't  only  a  amature,  as  it  were.       Anyways,  I've  got  my 


512 


JIM  SMILEY'S  FROG. 


opinion,  and  I'll  risk  forty  dollars  that  he  can  outjump  ary  frog  in  Cala- 
veras county. 

And  the  feller  studied  a  minute,  and  then  says,  kinder  sad  like,  "Well, 
I'm  only  a  stranger  here,  and  I  ain't  got  no  frog;  but  if  I  had  a  frog,  I'd 
bet  you." 

And  then  Smiley  says,  "That's  all  right, — that's  all  right;  if  you'll 
hold  my  box  a  minute,  I'll  go  and  get  you  a  frog."  And  so  the  feller  took 
the  box,  and  put  up  his  forty  dollars  along  with  Smiley 's  and  set  down  to 
wait.  So  he  set  ^ere  a  good  while,  thinking  and  thinking  to  hisself,  and 
then  he  got  the  frog  out  and  prized  his  mouth  open,  and  took  a  teaspoon 
and  filled  him  full  of  quail  shot, — filled  him  pretty  near  up  to  his  chin, — 
and  set  him  on  the  floor.  Smiley  he  went  to  the  swamp,  and  slopped 
around  in  the  mud  for  a  long  time,  and  finally  he  ketched  a  fi'og,  and 
fetched  him  in,  and  give  him  to  this  feller,  and  says : 

"  Now,  if  you're  ready,  set  him  alongside  of  Dan'l,  with  his  fore-paws 
just  even  with  Dan'l,  and  I'll  give  the  word."  Then  he  says,  "One — two 
— three — -jump  ;"  and  him  and  the  feller  touched  up  the  frogs  from  behind, 
and  the  new  frog  hopped  ofl",  but  Dan'l  give  a  heave,  and  hysted  up  his 
shoulders, — so, — like  a  Frenchman,  but  it  wan't  no  use, — he  couldn't  budge ; 

he  was  planted  as  solid  as  an  anvil,  and  he 
couldn't  no  more  stir  than  if  he  was  anchored 
out.  Smiley  was  a  good  deal  surprised,  and 
he  was  disgusted  too,  but  he  didn't  have  no 
idea  what  the  matter  was,  of  course. 

The  feller  took  the  money  and  started 
away ;  and  when  he  was  going  out  at  the  door, 
he  sorter  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulders, 
— this  way, — at  Dan'l,  and  says  again,  very 
doliborate,  "Well  /  don't  sec  no  p'ints  alwut 
that  frog  that's  any  better 'n  any  other  frog." 
Smiley  he  stood  scratching  his  head  and 
looking  down  at  Dan'l  a  long  time,  and  at  last  he  says,  "  I  do  wonder 
what  in  the  nation  that  frog  throwed  off"  for;  I  wonder  if  there  an't 
something  the  matter  with  him,  he  'pears  to  look  mighty  baggy,  some- 
how." And  ho  ketched  Dan'l  by  the  nap  of  the  neck,  and  lifted  him 
up,  and  .says,  "Why,  blame  my  cats,  if  he  don't  weigh  five  pound!' 
and  turned  him  upside  down,  and  lie  belched  out  a  double  handful  of 
shot.  And  then  he  see  how  it  Wius,  and  he  was  the  maddest  man.  lie 
sot  the  frog  down,  and  t-ook  out  after  that  feller,  but  he  never  ketched 
him. 


THE  MOTHER  lis'  THE  SNOW  STORM. 


51S 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE. 


THOMAS 

-sfe-  - 

iPJn^HE  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to 
the  eye, 
Than  if  day  in  its  pride  had  ar- 
rayed it : 
The  land-breeze  blew  mild,  and  the  i 
azure-arched  sky  ' 

Looked    pure   as   the   spirit   that 
made  it : 
The  murmur  rose  soft,  as  I  silently  gazed 

On  the  shadowy  waves'  playful  motion. 
From  the  dim  distant  hill,    till    the  light- 
house fire  blazed 
Like  a  star  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean. 

No  longer  the  joy  of  the  sailor-boy's  breast 
Was  heard  in  his  wildly-breathed  numbers ; 
The  sea-bird  had  flown  to  her  wave-girdled 

nest. 


MOORE. 


The  fisherman  sunk  to  his  slumbers: 
One  moment  I  looked  from  the  hill's  gentle 
slope, 
All  hushed  was  the  billows'  commotion, 
And  o'er  them  the  light-house  looked  lovely 
as  hope, — 
That  star  of  life's  tremulous  ocean. 

The  time  is  long  past,  and  the  scene  is  afar, 

Yet  when  my  head  rests  on  its  pillow. 
Will  memory  sometimes  rekindle  the  star 

That  blazed  on  the  breast  of  the  billow  : 
In  life's  closing  hour,  when  the  trembling  soul 
flies. 

And  death  stills  the  heart's  last  emotion  ; 
Oh,  then  may  the  seraph  of  mercy  arise, 

Like  a  star  on  eternity's  ocean  ! 


THE  MOTHER  IN  THE  SNOW-STORM. 


SEBA    SMITH. 


JrHE  cold  wind  swept   the   mountain's 
Wim  I'eight, 

And  patliless  was  the  dreary  wild ; 
c-;j)     And  'mid  the  cheerless  hours  of  night 
A  mother  wander'd  with  her  child. 
As   through    the   drifting    snow   she 
pressed. 
The  babe  was  sleeping  on  her  breast. 
3.> 


And  colder  still  the  winds  did  blow, 
And  darker  hours  of  night  came  on. 

And  deeper  grew  the  drifts  of  snow ; 

Her  limbs  were  chill'd,  her  strength  was 
gone. 

"  0  God  !  "  she  cried,  in  accents  wild, 

"  If  I  must  perish,  save  my  child !  " 


514 


JOE. 


She  stripp'd  her  mantle  from  her  breast, 
And  bared  her  bosom  to  the  storm, 

And  round  the  child  she  wrapp'd  the  vest. 
And  smiled  to  think  her  babe  was  warm. 

With  one  cold  kiss  one  tear  she  shed, 

And  sunk  upon  a  snowy  bed. 


At  dawn  a  traveller  passed  by, 
And  saw  her  'neath  a  snowy  veil  ; 

The  frost  of  death  was  in  her  eye, 

Her  cheek  was  cold,  and  hard,  and  pale,- 

He  moved  the  robe  from  off  the  child. 

The  babe  look'd  up  and  sweetly  smiled. 


JOE. 


ALICE   ROBBINS. 


^m^E  don't  take  vagrants  in,  sir, 


\S\    And  I  am  alone  to-day, 
i  t^.  'I  Leastwise,  I  could  call  the  good  man— 
9/ ''  He's  not  so  far  away. 

>  You  are  welcome  to  a  breakfast — 

T  I'll  bring  you  some  bread  and  tea ; 

You  might  sit  on  the  old  stone  yonder, 
Under  the  chestnut  tree. 

You're  traveling,  stranger  ?  Mebbe 
You've  got  some  notions  to  sell  ? 

We  hev  a  sight  of  peddlers. 
But  we  allers  treat  them  well. 

For  they,  poor  souls,  are  trying 

Like  the  rest  of  us  to  live : 
And  it's  not  like  tramping  the  country 

And  calling  on  folks  to  give. 

Not  that  I  meant  a  word,  sir — 
No  offence  in  the  world  to  you: 

I  think,  now  I  look  at  it  closer, 
Your  coat  is  an  army  blue. 

Don't  say  ?    Under  Sherman,  were  you  ? 

That  wa.s — how  many  years  ago? 
1  had  a  boy  at  Shiloh, 

Kearney — a  sergeant — Joe  ! 

Joe  Kearney,  you  might  a'  met  him  ? 

But  in  course  you  were  miles  apart, 
He  was  a  tall,  straight  boy,  sir, 

Tbo  pride  of  his  mother's  heart. 

Wo  were  off  to  Kitt^jry,  then,  sir. 
Small  farmers  in  dear  old  Maine; 

It's  a  long  8tret<;h  from  there  to  Kansai, 
But  I  couldn't  go  back  again. 


He  was  all  we  had,  was  Joseph ; 

He  and  my  old  man  and  me 
Had  sort  o'  growed  together. 

And  were  happy  as  we  could  be. 

I  wasn't  a  lookin'  for  trouble 

When  the  terrible  war  begun. 
And  I  wrestled  for  grace  to  be  able 

To  give  up  our  only  son. 

Well,  well,  'taint  no  use  o'  talking. 

My  old  man  said,  said  he; 
"  The  Lord  loves  a  willing  giver ;" 

And  that's  what  I  tried  to  be. 

Well  the  heart  and  the  flesh  are  rebels, 
And  hev  to  be  fought  with  grace  ; 

But  I'd  give  my  life — yes,  willin' — 
To  look  on  my  dead  boy's  face. 

Take  care,  you  are  spillin'  your  tea,  sir, 
Poor  soul !  don't  cry :  I'm  sure 

You've  had  a  good  mother  sometime — 
Your  wounds,  were  they  hard  to  cure  ? 

Audi  iHoiiville  !  God  help  you! 

Hunted  by  dogs,  did  you  say! 
Hosjiital!  crazy,  seven  years,  sir? 

1  wonder  your'*!  living  to-day. 

I'm  thankful  my  Joe  was  shot,  sir, 
"  How  do  you  know  that  he  died  ?" 
'Twas  certified,  sir,  by  tlio  surgeon  . 

Horii's  (ho  letliT,  and — "  meb])o  ho  11(^1  !*' 

Woll,  I  never!    you  shake  like  tlio  ager. 

My  Joe  !  there's  his  name  and  the  date  ; 
"  Joo  Kearney,  7th  Maine,  sir,  a  sergeantr-i 

Lies  hero  in  a  critical  state — 


THE  FAIRIES. 


nb 


Just  died — will  be  buried  to-morrow — 
Can't  wait  lor  his  parents  to  come." 

Well,  I  though  I  God  had  left  us  that  hour, 
As  for  John,  my  poor  man,  he  was  dumb. 

Didn't  speak  for  a  month  to  the  neighbors. 
Scarce  spoke  in  a  week,  sir,  to  me; 

Never  been  the  same  man  since  that  Monday 
They  brought  us  this  letter  you  see. 

And  you  were  from  Maine !  from  old  Kittery  ? 
What  time  in  the  year  did  you  go  ? 


I  just  disremernber  the  fellows 

That  marched  out  of  town  with  our  Joe. 

Lord  love  ye  !  come  into  the  house,  sir; 

It's  gettin'  too  warm  out  o'  door. 
If  I'd  known  you'd  been  gone  for  a  sojer, 

I'd  taken  you  in  here  afore. 

Now  make  yourself  easy.     We're  humbler, 
We  Kansas  folks  don't  go  for  show, — 

Set  here — it's  Joe's  chair — take  your  hat  off; 
"  Call  father  !"  My  God  !  you  are  Joel 


THE  FAIRIES. 


WILLIAM   ALLINGHAM. 


P  the  airy  mountain, 


Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  dare  n't  go  a  hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  1 


Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home, — 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam  ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake. 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  king  sits ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses ; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights. 
To  sup  with  the  queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 


They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long  ; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back. 

Between  the  night  and  morrow; 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asiee^. 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lakes, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  lhorn-tree« 

For  pleasure  here  and  there 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

To  dig  one  up  in  spite. 
He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen. 
We  dare  n't  go  a  hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  featherl 


516  WORSE  THAN  CIVIL  WAR. 


WOBSU  THAN  CIVIL   WAB. 


From  Senator  Baker's  Speech  at  Union  Square,  New  York,  April  20th,  18B1. 


|ET  no  man  underrate  the  dangers  of  this  controversy.     Civil  war.,  for 
the  best  of  reasons  on  the  one  side,  and  the  worst  upon  the  other,  is 
always  dangerous  to  liberty,  always  fearful,  always  bloody ;  but,  fel- 
[]        low-citizens,  there  are  yet  worse  things  than  fear,  than  doubt  and 
dread,   and   danger   and   blood.      Dishonor   is  worse.     Perpetual 
S        anarchy  is  worse.     States  forever  commingling  and  forever  sever- 
ing are  worse.     Traitors   and  secessionists  are  worse.     To  have  star  after 
star  blotted  out — to  have  stripe  after  stripe  obscured — to  have  glory  after 
glory  dimmed,  to  have  our  women  weep  and  our  men  blush  for  shame  through- 
out generations  to  come — that  and  these  are  infinitely  worse  than  blood. 

When  we  march,  let  us  not  march  for  revenge.  As  yet  we  have  noth- 
ing to  revenge.  It  is  not  much  that  where  that  tattered  flag  waved 
guarded  by  seventy  men  against  ten  thousand;  it  is  not  much  that  starva- 
tion effected  what  an  enemy  could  not  compel.  We  have  as  yet  something  to 
punish ;  but  nothing  or  very  little  to  revenge.  The  President  himself,  a 
hero  without  knowing  it — and  I  speak  from  knowledge,  having  known  him 
from  boyhood — the  President  says :  "  There  are  wrongs  to  be  redressed 
already  long  enough  endured."  And  we  march  to  battle  and  to  victory 
because  we  do  not  choose  to  endure  this  wrong  any  longer.  They  are 
wrongs  not  merely  against  us — not  against  you,  Mr.  President — not 
against  rne — but  against  our  sons  and  against  our  grandsons  that  surround 
us.  They  are  wrongs  against  our  Union ;  they  arc  wrongs  against  our 
Constitution ;  they  are  wrongs  against  human  hope  and  human  freedom ; 
and  thus,  if  it  be  avenged,  still,  as  Burke  says,  "It  is  a  wild  justice  at 
la.st." 

Only  thus  wo  will  revenge  them.  TIk;  national  banners,  leaning  from 
ten  thousand  windows  in  your  city  to-day,  proclaim  your  affection  and 
reverence  for  the  Union.     You  will  gather  in  battalions 

"  P;itir'nt  of  toil,  serene  aini'lst  alarma, 
Inflexihln  in  faith,  invini'ilil''  in  arms;" 

and  aa  you  gather,  every  ouwm  of  ])reseht  concord  and  ultimate  j)eaco  will 
surround  you.  The  ministers  of  religion,  the  priests  of  literature,  the  his- 
torians of  the  past,  the  illustrators  of  the  present,  capital,  science,  art, 
invention,  discoveries,  the  works  of  genius — all  those  will  attend  us  in  our 
xftarch,  and  wo  will  conquer.     And  if  from  the  far  Pacific  a  voice  feebler 


m  THE  SHORE  OF  THE  RIVER. 


517 


than  the  feeblest  murmur  upon  its  shore  may  be  heard  to  give  you  courage 
and  hope  in  the  contest,  that  voice  is  yours  to-day ;  an(j  if  a  man  whose 
hair  is  gray,  who  is  well-nigh  woi'n  out  in  the  battle  and  toil  of  life,  may 
pledge  himself  on  such  an  occasion  and  in  such  an  audience,  let  me  say,  as 
my  hxst  word,  that  when,  amid  sheeted  fire  and  flame,  I  saw  and  led  the 
hosts  of  New  York  as  ihey  charged  in  contest  upon  a  foreign  soil  for  the 
honor  of  your  flag,  so  again,  if  Providence  shall  will  it,  this  feeble  hand 
shall  draw  a  sword,  never  yet  dishonored — not  to  fight  for  distant  honor  in 
a  foreign  land,  but  to  fight  for  country,  for  home,  for  law,  for  Government, 
for  Constitution,  for  right,  for  freedom,  for  humanity  ;  and  in  the  hope  that 
the  banner  of  my  country  may  advance,  and  wheresoever  that  banner 
waves,  there  glory  may  pursue  and  freedom  be  established. 


BY  THE  SHORE  OF  THE  RIVER. 


C.    p.    CRANCH. 


HROUGH  the  gray  willows  the  bleak 
winds  are  raving 
Here  on  the  shore  with  its  driftwood 
and  sands ; 
Over  the  river  the  lilies  are  waving, 
Bathed  in  the   sunshine   of  Orient 
lands ; 

Over  the  river,  the  wide  dark  river, 
Spring-time  and  summer  are  blooming 
forever. 

Here,  all  alone  on  the  rocks  I  am  sitting, 
Sitting    and    waiting — my    comrades    all 
gone — 

Shadows  of  mystery  drearily  flitting 
Over  the  surf  with  its  sorrowful  moan, 
Over  the  river,  the  strange  cold  river, 
Ah !  must  I  wait  for  the  Boatman  forever  ? 

Wife  and  children  and  friends  were  around 
me  ; 
Labor  and  rest  were  as  wings  to  r  ^  soul ; 
Honor    and    love    were    the     l;uir;.s    that 
crowned  me  ; 
Little  I  recked  how  the  dark  waJi   3  roll. 
But  the  deep  river,  the  gray,  mis;y  river. 
All  that  1  lived  for  has  taken  fore ,  ;r ! 


Silently  came  a  black  boat  o'er  the  billows ; 

Stealthily  grated  the  keel  on  the  sand ; 
Rustling  footsteps  were  heard  through  the 
willows, 
There   the  dark  Boatman   stood,   waving 

his  hand, 
Whisp'ring,    "  I  come,   o'er  the  shadowy 

river  ; 
She  who  is  dearest  must  leave  thee  forever.'* 

Suns  that  were  brightest  and  skies  that  wero 

bluest, 

Darkened  and  paled  in  the  message  he  bore. 

Year  after  year  went  the  fondest,  the  truest. 

Following    that  beckoning   hand    to   the 

shore, 
Down  to  the  river,  the  cold  grim  river, 
Over  whose  waters  they  vanished  forever. 

Yet  not  in  visions  of  grief  have  I  wandered  ; 

Still  have  I  toiled,  though  my  ardors  have 

flown. 

Labor  is  manhood,  and  life  is  but  squandered 

Dreaming   vague    dreams   of   the    future 

alone. 
Yet  from  the  tides  of  the  mystical  river 
Voices  of  spirits  are  whispering  ever. 


618 


BILL  MASONS  BRIDE. 


Lonely  and  old  in  the  dusk  I  am  waiting, 
Till  the  dark  Boatman,  with  soft,  muffled 

oar, 
Glides  o'er  the  waves,  and  I  hear  the  keel 

grating, 


See    the    dim,    beckoning    hand    on    the 

shore, 
Wooing  me  over  the  welcoming  river 
To  gardens  and  homes  that  are  shining  for- 
ever ! 


INDIAN  DBA  TH  SONG. 


PHILIP    FRENEAU. 


Spl^RE  sun  sets  at  night,  and  the  stars  Remember  the  wood  where  in  ambush  we  lay, 

^^             shun  the  day ;  And  tlie  scalps  which   we  bore  from  your 

•     T-      But  glory  remains  wlion  their  lights  nation  away. 

-■  -               fade  away.  Now  the  ilame  rises  fast,  you  exult  in  my 

J*         Begin,  you  tormentors !  your  threats  !               pain  ; 

are  in  vain,  I  But  the  son  of  Alknomook  can  never  com- 

For  the  son   of    Alknomook    will  [              plain. 

never  complain.  [  I  go  to  the  land  where  my  father  is  gone ; 

Eemembcr  the  arrows  In-  shot  from  liis  bow  ;  His  ghost  sliall  rejoice  in  the  fame  of  his 

Remember  your  chiefs  byhisliatchet  laid  low  I  son. 

Wliy  so  slow  ?  do  you  wait  till  I  shrink  from  Death  comes  like  a  fi  icnd  to  relieve  mo  from 

the  pain?  pain; 

No!  the  son  of  Alknoinuok  shall  never  com-  And  thy  son,  0  Alknomook  !  has  scorned  to 

plain.  '               complain. 


:i. 


r.TLL  MASON'S  BRIDE. 


V.     HRliJT   nARTE. 


iVy? ALF  an  liour  till  train  time,  sir,  !   You  know  Bill  ?     No  !     He's  engineer. 

jJPj^       An'  a  f.farful  .lark  time,  too ;  |       g^p^  ,.,„  the  road  all  his  life— 

^♦y.-Y  T'^"^"  •''  ^'"'^  '^^  '•"'   "^'^*'"!'  ^''^^'!"'  '   I'll  never  forget  tli.  morning 

(I  ^  Fetrli    in    a    Htir-k    when  you're          ,j             •    i  i  ■      i      t      i-          r 

T,  ^  He  married  Ins  cliuck  of  a  wife. 

•)  ihroiigli. 

%  "On  time.'  "   well,  yes,  1  guess  ho  — 

\  Left  the  lawt  Ktation  all  right — 

She'll  come  round  the  curveaflyin' ; 

Bill  Mason  comes  up  to-niglit. 


'Twas  the  Hiimmer  tlu^  mill  hands  struck- 

.lust  off  work,  every  one; 
Tlicy  kirki'd  n]>  a  row  in  the  village 

And  i^illrd  (lid  Donovan's  Bon. 


A  HUSBAND'S  EXP-ERIENCE  IN  COOKING. 


519 


Bill  luuln'tboen  married  mor'n  an  hour, 

Up  comes  the  message  from  Kress, 
Orderin'  Bill  to  go  up  there, 

And  bring  down  the  night  express. 
He  left  his  gal  in  a  hurry. 

And  went  up  on  number  one, 
Thinking  of  nothing  but  Mary, 

And  the  train  he  had  to  run. 

And  Mary  sat  down  by  the  window 
To  wait  for  the  night  express  ; 

And,  sir,  if  she  hadn't  a'  done  so, 
She'd  been  a  widow,  I  guess. 

For  it  must  a'  been  nigh  midnight 

When  the  mill  hands  left  the  Ridge — 
They  come  down — the  drunken  devils ! 

Tore  up  a  rail  from  the  bridge. 
But  Mary  heard  'em  a  workin' 

And  guessed  therewas  something  wrong 
And  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes. 

Bill's  train  it  would  be  along? 

She  couldn't  come  here  to  tell  ws, 

A  mile — it  wouldn't  a'  done — 
So  she  jest  grabbed  up  a  lantern. 

And  made  for  the  bridge  alone. 
Then  down  came  the  night  express,  sir, 

And  Bill  was  makin'  her  climb  ! 
But  Mary  held  the  lantern, 

A-swingin'  it  all  the  time. 


"Well !  by  Jove  !  Bill  saw  the  signal, 
And  he  stopped  the  night  express, 


And  he  found  his  Mary  cryin'. 
On  the  track,  in  her  weddin'  dress ; 

Cryin'  and  laughin'  for  joy,  sir. 
An'  holdin'  on  to  the  light — 

Hello  !  here's  the  train — good-bye,  sir, 
Bill  Mason's  on  time  to-night. 


A  HUSBANUS  EXPERIENCE  IN  COOKING. 


FOUND  fault,  some  time  ago,  with  Maria  Aiin'.s  custard  pie,  and  tried 
to  tell  her  how  my  mother  made  custard  pie.  Maria  made  the  pie 
after  my  receipt.  It  lasted  longer  than  any  other  pie  we  ever  had. 
Maria  set  it  on  the  table  every  day  for  dinner,  and  you  see  I  could 
not  eat  it,  because- 1  forgot  to  tell  her  to  put  in  any  eggs  or  shortening.  It 
was  economical,  but  in  a  fit  of  generosity  I  stole  it  from  the  pantry,  and 
gave  it  to  a  poor  little  boy  in  the  neighborhood.  The  boy's  funeral  was 
largely  attended  by  his  former  playmates.     I  did  not  go  myself 

Then  there  were  the  buckwheat  cakes.  I  told  Maria  Ann  anv  f  >ol 
could  beat  her  making  those  cakes,  and  she  said  I  had  better  trv  it.  So  T 
did.     I  emptied  the  batter  all  out  of  the  pitcher  one  evening,  and  set  th-^ 


520 


MEASURING  THE  BABY. 


cakes  myself.  I  got  the  flour,  and  the  salt,  and  water,  and  warned  by  the 
past,  put  in  a  liberal  quantity  of  eggs  and  shortening.  I  shortened  with 
tallow  from  roast  beef,  because  I  could  not  find  any  hird.  The  batter  did 
not  look  right,  and  I  Ht  my  pipe  and  pondered :  "  Yeast !  yeast,  to  be 
sure  I"  I  had  forgotten  the  yeavst.  I  went  and  woke  up  the  baker,  and  got 
six  cents'  worth  of  yeast.  I  set  the  pitcher  behind  the  sitting-room  stove, 
and  went  to  bed.  In  the  morning  I  got  up  early,  and  prepared  to  enjoy 
my  triumph;  but  I  didn't.  That  yeast  was  strong  enough  to  raise  the 
dead,  and  the  batter  was  running  all  over  the  carpet.  I  scraped  it  up  and 
put  it  into  another  dish.  Then  got  a  fire  in  the  kitchen,  and  put  on  the 
griddle.  The  first  lot  of  cakes  stuck  to  the  griddle.  The  second  dittoed, 
only  more.  Maria  came  down  and  as^l^ed  what  was  burning.  Slie  advised 
me  to  grease  the  griddle.  I  did  it.  One  end  of  the  griddle  got  too  hot, 
and  I  dropped  the  thing  on  my  tenderest  corn,  while  trying  to  turn  it 
around.  Finally  the  cakes  were  ready  for  breakfast,  and  Maria  got  the 
other  things  ready.     We  sat  down.     My  cakes  did  not  have  exactly  the 

right  flavor.  I 
took  one  mouth- 
ful and  it  satisfied 
me;  I  lost  my 
appetite  at  once. 
]\Iaria  would  not 
let  me  {)ut  one  on 
her  plate,  and  I 
think  those  cakes 
may  !>(>  reckoned 
a  dciad  loss.  The 
cat  would  not  eat  them.  The  dog  ran  off  and  staid  away  three  days  after 
ono  was  offered  him.  The  hens  won't  go  within  ten  feet  of  iho.m.  I  threw 
tli<;in  into  the  back  yard,  ami  iIi<T(>  has  not  Ijcen  a  pig  on  the  premises 
since.  I  tjat  what  is  )»ut  b<-fore  me  now,  and  do  nut  allude  to  my  mother's 
system  of  cooking. 


MEASURIKd   TlfE  BABY. 


KMMA    ALICK    BRUWN. 


^K  iri<!usiirfi<l  tlif.  riutuiiH  luihy 
Af^airist  llif  fotta^^o  wall  — 
14^-^— '»    A  lily  gnw  on  tlif  tlirt^nlioid, 
•  Ari'l  tlic  boy  wa.HJii«t  iwtall; 


A  royal  tigiT  lily, 

With  Hpots  of  piirpli-  anil  gol<l, 
An'l  !i  In-art  liki'  a  ji-wcllcil  ilialice, 

TIm;  fragrant  tlt-w  to  hoM. 


DIAMOND  DUST. 


521 


Without,  the  bluebirds  whistled 

High  up  in  the  old  roof-trees, 
And  to  and  fro  at  the  window 

The  red  rose  rocked  her  bees ; 
And  the  wee  pink  fists  of  the  baby 

Were  never  a  moment  still. 
Snatching  at  sliine  and  shadow 

That  danced  on  the  lattice-sill. 

His  eyes  were  wide  as  bluebells — 

His  mouth  like  a  flower  unblown — 
Two  little  bare  feet  like  funny  white  mice, 

Peeped  out  from  his  snowy  gown  ; 
And  we  thought,  with  a  thrill  of  rapture 

That  yet  had  a  touch  of  pain. 
When  June  rolls  around  with  her  roses, 

We'll  measure  the  boy  again. 

Ah  me  !  in  a  darkened  chamber, 

With  the  sunshine  shut  away 
Through  tears  that  fell  like  a  bitter  rain. 

We  measured  the  boy  to-day  ; 


And  the  little  bare  feet,  that  were  dimpled 

And  sweet  as  a  budding  rose, 
Lay  side  by  side  together. 

In  a  hush  of  a  long  repose ! 

Up  from  the  dainty  pillow, 

White  as  the  risen  dawn, 
The  fair  little  face  lay  smiling, 

With  the  light  of  heaven  thereon  ; 
And  the  dear  little  han  is,  like  rose  leaves 

Dropped  from  a  rose,   lay  still. 
Never  to  snatch  at  the  su:i.<liine 

That  crept  to  the  shruuded  sill! 

We  measured  thesleepinj  baby 

With  ribbons  white  ai  snow. 
For  the  shining  rosewood  casket 

That  waited  him  below  ; 
And  out  of  the  darkened  chamber 

We  went  with  a  childless  moan — 
To  the  height  of  the  sinless  angels 

Our  little  one  had  grown. 


DIAMOND  DUST. 


^j^lMraHE  world  is  what  we  make  it.  For- 
ward then,  forward,  in  the  power 
of  faith,  forward  in  the  power  of 
truth,  forward  in  the  power  of 
friendship,  forward  in  the  power 
of  freedom,  forward  in  the  power 
of  hope,  forward  in  the  power 
of  God.  {Henry  Vincent. 

To  honor  God,  to  benefit  mankind. 
To  serve  with  lofty  gifts  the  lowly  needs 
Of  the  poor  race  for  which  the  God-man  died, 
And  do  it  all  for  love — oh,  this  is  great ! 
And  he  who  does  this  will  achieve  a  name 
Not  only  great  but  good.  (Holland. 

He  that  has  never  known  adversity  is  but 
half  acquainted  with  others  or  with  him- 
.self.  Constant  success  shows  us  but  one 
side  of  the  world,  for,  as  it  surrounds  us 
with  friends  who  will  tell  us  only  our 
merits,  so  it  silences  those  enemies  from 
whom  alone  we  can  learn  our  defects. 

{Colton. 


We  hear  much  now  about  circumstanceB 
making  us  what  we  are  and  destroying 
our  responsibility ;  but  however  much 
the  external  circum.^tances  in  which  we 
are  placed,  the  temptations  to  which  we 
are  exposed,  the  desire-^  of  our  own  na- 
tures, may  work  upon  us,  all  these  in- 
fluences have  a  limit,  which  they  do  not 
pass,  and  that  is  the  limit  laid  upon  them 
by  the  freedom  of  the  will,  which  is 
essential  to  human  nature, — to  our  per- 
sonality. (Luthardt. 

The  vast  cathedral  of  nature  is  full  of  holy 
scriptures  and  shapes  of  deep  mysterious 
meaning,  but  all  is  solitar)'  and  silent 
there  ;  no  bending  knee,  no  uplifted  eye, 
no  lip  adoring,  praying.  Into  thi.«  vast 
cathedral  comes  the  human  soul  seeking 
its  Creator,  and  the  universal  silence  is 
changed  to  sound,  and  the  sound  is  har- 
monious and  has  a  meaning  and  is  com- 
prehended and  felt.  {Lonfjfellow. 


622 


MAMOND  DUST. 


The  shaping  our  own  life  is  our  own  work. 
It  is  a  thing  of  beauty,  it  is  a  thing  of 
shame,  as  we  ourselves  make  it.  We 
lay  the  corner  and  add  joint  to  joint,  we 
give  the  proportion,  we  set  the  finish. 
It  may  be  a  thing  of  beauty  and  of  joy 
forever.  God  forgive  us  if  we  pervert 
our  life  from  putting  on  its  appointed 
glory.  ( War-e. 

They  who  live  most  by  themselves  reflect 
most  upon  others,  and  he  who  lives  sur- 
rounded by  the  million  never  thinks  of 
any  but  the  one  individual — himself. 
We  are  so  linked  to  our  fellow-beings 
that  were  we  not  chained  to  them  by 
action,  we  are  carried  to  and  connected 
with  them  by  thought.  {Bulwer. 

Censure  and  criticism  never  hurt  anybody. 
If  false,  they  can't  hurt  you  unless  you 
are  wanting  in  manly  character ;  and  if 
true,  they  show  a  man  his  weak  points, 
and  forewarn  him  against  failure  and 
trouble.  {Gladstone. 

The  humble  man,  though  surrounded  with 
the  scorn  and  reproach  of  the  worlu,  is 
still  in  peace,  for  the  stability  of  his 
peace  resteth  not  upon  the  world,  but 
upon  God.  (Keinpis. 

Jieave  consequences  to  God,  but  do  right.  Be 
genuine,  real,  sincere,  true,  upright,  God- 
like. The  world's  maxim  is,  trim  your 
sails  and  yield  to  circumstances.  But  if 
you  would  do  any  good  in  your  genera- 
tion, you  must  be  made  of  sterner  stuff, 
and  help  make  your  times  rather  than  be 
made  by  them.  You  must  not  yield  to 
customs,  but,  like  tlie  anvil,  endure  all 
blows,  until  the  liaminers  break  them- 
selvcfl.  When  mi8rej)res(nted,  use  no 
crooked  means  to  clear  yourself.  Clouds 
do  not  last  long.  If  in  the  course  of 
duty  you  are  tried  by  the  distrust  of 
friends,  gird  up  your  loins  and  say  in 
your  heart,  "  I  was  not  driven  to  virtue 
by  the  encouragement  of  friends,  nor 
will  i  bo  repelled  from  it  by  their  cold- 
nesB."  Finally,  "  be  just  an<l  fear  not ;" 
"  Corruption  wins  not  more  than 
honoHiy ;"  truth  lives  and  reigns  when 
iftlBehoud  diea  and  rots.  {Sjmrffeon. 


Some  clocks  do  not  strike.  You  must  look  at 
them  if  you  would  know  the  time. 
Some  men  do  not  talk  their  Christianity  ; 
you  must  look  at  their  lives  if  you  would 
know  what  the  gospel  can  do  for  human 
nature.  But  a  clock  need  not  be  incor- 
rect because  it  strikes ;  a  man  need  not 
be  inconsistent  because  he  speaks  as 
well  as  acts.  (Joseph  Parker. 

I  love  all  men.  I  know  that  at  bottom  they 
cannot  be  otherwise  ;  and  under  all  th« 
false  and  overloaded  and  glittering  mas- 
querade, there  is  in  every  man  a  noble 
nature  beneath,  only  thej''  cannot  bring 
it  out ;  and  whatever  they  do  that  is 
false  and  cunning  and  evil,  there  still 
remains  the  sentence  of  our  Great  Ex- 
ample, "  Forgive  them  for  they  know 
not  what  they  do."  {Auerhach. 

If  on  a  cold,  dark  night  yuu  see  a  man 
picking  his  way  up  a  rickety  pair  of 
stairs  where  one  of  God's  poor  children 
lives,  with  a  heavy  basket  on  his  arm, 
you  need  not  gtop  him  to  ask  if  he  loves 
the  Lord.  Whether  he  is  an  Orthodox, 
a  Catholic,  or  a  heathen,  he  is  laying  up 
treasures  in  heaven.  (Golden  Eule. 

There  is  a  beautiful  Indian  apologue,  which 
says:  A  man  once  said  to  a  lump  of 
clay,  "What  art  thou?"  The  reply 
was,  "  I  am  but  a  lump  of  clay,  but  I 
was  jilaced  beside  a  rose  and  I  caught 
its  fragrance." — So  our  prayers  are 
Jilaced  beside  the  smoke  of  the  incense 
ai'cending  before  God ;  thus  they  are 
made  fragrant  and  a  promise  of  suc- 
cess is  given.  In  the  oM  dispensation, 
a  cloud  hovered  above  the  altar,  and  if 
by  some  m)'sterious  means  that  cloud  was 
borne  down,  it  wa-!  a  token  that  the  offer- 
ing was  rejected ;  but  if  the  smoke  roso 
U[),  then  the  offering  was  accepted,  and 
sinners  might  rejoice.  Our  firayers  are 
always  ascending  to  God  in  Hie  cloud  of 
incense  out  of  the  angel's  hand.  Thero 
is,  then,  an  assurance  of  lil^ssedncss.  It 
is  taken  out  of  our  hands  altogether— ho 
makes  our  prayers  his  own,  they  are 
his  own  jiniyers  ascending  up  to  God's 
throne.  [Punahon. 


DIAMOND  DUST. 


523 


The  greatest  thing  a  human  soul  ever  does 
in  this  world  is  to  see  something,  and 
tell  what  it  saw  in  a  plain  way.  Hun- 
dreds of  people  can  talk  for  one  who  can 
think,  but  thousands  can  think  for  one 
who  can  see.  To  see  clearly,  is  poetry, 
prophecy,  and  religion,  all  in  one. 

{Buskin. 

There  can  be  no  real  conflict  between  Science 
and  the  Bible — between  nature  and  the 
Scriptures — the  two  Books  of  the  Great 
Author.  Both  are  revelations  made  by 
him  to  man  ;  the  earlier  telling  of  God- 
made  harmonies  coming  up  from  the 
deep  past,  and  rising  to  their  height 
when  man  appeared  ;  the  later  teaching 
man's  relations  to  his  Maker,  and  speak- 
ing of  loftier  harmonies  in  the  eternal 
future.  {Dana. 

Modern  discoveries,  instead  of  detracting 
from,  increase  the  significance  of,  the 
Bible  symbolism.  Every  new  revela- 
tion of  the  beautiful  or  useful  properties 
of  light  adds  something  significant  to  the 
meaning  of  our  Lord's  declaration, 
"  I  am  the  Light  of  the  world." 

{E.  B.  Hoiuard. 


The  flowers  of  rhetoric  are  only  acceptable 
when  backed  by  the  evergreens  of  truth 
and  sense.  The  granite  statue,  rough 
hewn,  though  it  be,  is  far  more  imposing 
in  its  simple  and  stern  though  rude  pro- 
portions, than  the  plaster-cast,  however 
elaborately  wrought  and  gilded. 

{Maeaulay. 

There  is  a  broad  distinction  between  charac- 
ter and  reputation,  for  one  may  be  de- 
stroyed by  slander,  while  the  other  can 
never  be  harmed  save  by  its  possessor. 
Reputation  is  in  no  man's  keeping.  You 
and  I  cannot  determine  what  other  men 
shall  think  and  say  about  us.  We  can 
only  determine  what  they  ought  to  think 
of  us,  and  say  about  us,  and  we  can 
only  do  this  by  acting  squarely  on  our 
convictions.  {Holland. 

We  hold  religion  too  cheaply,  and  speak  of 
the  ease  with  which  it  may  be  had, 
overlooking  the  stubborn  depravity  of 
the  heart  and  the  power  of  Satan.  Some 
would  like  to  ride  to  heaven  in  a  close 
carriage,  that  would  never  be  jolted,  or 
enjoy  sunshine  all  the  way  to  the  gates 
of  glory.  ( Theo.  L.  Cuyler. 


MY  MO  THEE S  BIBLE. 


GEO.  P.  MORRIS. 


|HIS  book  is  all  that's  left  me  now, — 

Tears  will  unbidden  start, — 
With  faltering  lip  and  throbbing  brow 

I  press  it  to  my  heart. 
For  many  generations  past 

Here  is  our  family  tree  ; 
My  mother's  hands  this  Bible  clasped, 

She,  dying,  gave  it  me. 


Ah  !  well  do  I  remember  those 

Whose  names  these  records  bear ; 
Who  round  the  hearthstone  used  to  close, 

After  the  evening  prayer, 
And  speak  of  what  these  pages  said 

In  tones  my  heart  would  thrill !  | 

Though  they  are  with  the  silent  dead,  j 

Here  are  they  living  still  I  j 


My  father  read  this  holy  book 

To  brothers,  sisters,  dear ; 
How  calm  was  my  poor  mother's  look. 

Who  loved  God's  word  to  hear ! 
Her  angel  face, — I  see  it  yet: 

^Vhat  thronging  memories  come ! 
Again  that  little  group  is  met 

Within  the  halls  of  home  ! 

Thou  truest  friend  man  ever  knew, 

Thy  constancy  I've  tried  ; 
When  all  were  false,  I  found  thee  true, 

My  counsellor  and  guide. 
The  mines  of  earth  no  treasures  give 

That  couM  this  volume  buy ; 
In  teaching  me  the  way  to  live, 

It  taught  me  how  to  die ! 


524 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 


THE  r I LGRIM  FATHERS. 


KD'A'AI'.D    KVERETT. 

^lOfill'iTII  I  XKS  I  si-e  it  now,  that  one  solitary,  advi'iitiirous  vossol,  tlic 
<^¥-*^     Mayflower  of  a  forlorn  lio[)(',  frfij^^litcd  witli  tin-  |iroHpecta  of  a 
f^',y,>''     i'liturc  state,  and  bound   a(M"osr^   the   unknown   sea.       T  lu'liold  it 
*j  pursuing,  witli  a  thousand  inisu;ivin!j;H,  the  uncertain,  lln'  tidioiis 

j  voyage.  Suns  rise  and  set,  and  weeks  mid  months  pass,  .md  winter 
surjjrises  them  on  the  deep,  but  Itrings  tlwni  not  tlu^  siglit  of  tlie  wishcd-for 
sliore.  I  see  them  now,  scantily  supplied  with  provisions,  crowded  almost 
to  HufTocation  in  their  ill-stored  piison,  delayed  by  calms,  pursuing  a  cir- 


BORRIOBOOLA  QHA.  525 


cuitous  route ;  and  now  driven  m  fury  before  the  raging  tempest,  on  the 
high  and  giddy  wave.  The  awfui  voice  of  the  storm  howls  through  the 
rigging ;  the  laboring  masts  seem  straining  from  their  base ;  the  dismal 
sound  of  the  pumps  is  heard;  the  ship  leaps,  as  it  were,  madly,  from  billow 
to  billow;  the  ocean  breaks,  and  settles  with  ingulfing  floods  over  the  float- 
ing deck,  and  beats,  with  deadening,  shivering  weight,  against  the 
staggered  vessel.  I  see  them,  escaped  from  these  perils,  pursuing  their  all 
but  desperate  undertaking,  and  landed,  at  last,  after  a  few  months  passage, 
on  the  ice-clad  rocks  of  Plymouth, — weak  and  weary  from  the  voyage, 
poorly  armed,  scantily  provisioned,  without  shelter,  without  means,  sur- 
rounded by  hostile  tribes. 

Shut  now,  the  volume  of  history,  and  teil  me,  on  any  principle  of 
human  probability,  what  shall  be  the  fate  of  this  handful  of  adventurers  ? 
Tell  me,  man  of  military  science,  in  how  many  months  were  they  all  swept 
off  by  the  thirty  savage  tribes  enumerated  within  the  early  limits  of  New 
England  ?  Tell  me,  politician,  how  long  did  this  shadow  of  a  colony,  on 
which  your  conventions  and  treaties  had  not  smiled,  languish  on  the 
distant  coast  ?  Student  of  history,  compare  for  me  the  baffled  projects, 
the  deserted  settlements,  the  abandoned  adventures,  of  other  times,  and 
find  the  parallel  of  this!  Was  it  the  winter's  storm,  beating  upon  the 
houseless  heads  of  women  and  children?  was  it  hard  labor  and  spare 
meals  ?  was  it  disease  ?  was  it  the  tomahawk  ?  was  it  the  deep  malady  of 
a  blighted  hope,  a  ruined  enterprise,  and  a  broken  heart,  aching,  in  its  last 
moments,  at  the  recollection  of  the  loved  auvi  left,  beyond  the  sea? — was  it 
some  or  all  of  these  united,  that  hurried  this  forsaken  company  to  their 
melancholy  fate  ?  And  is  it  possible  that  neither  of  these  causes,  that  not 
all  combined,  were  able  to  blast  this  bud  of  hope  ?  Is  it  possible  that  from 
a  beginning  so  feeble,  so  frail,  so  worthy,  not  so  much  of  admiration  as  of 
pity  there  has  gone  forth  a  progress  so  steady,  a  growth  so  wonderful,  an 
expansion  so  ample,  a  reality  so  important,  a  promise,  yet  to  be  fulfilled,  so 
glorious  ? 


BORRIOBOOLA  GHA. 


ORRIN   GOODRICH. 

c<;j^.  

^N^  Stranger  preached  last  Sunday,  'Twas  all  about  some  heathen, 

And  crowds  of  people  came  '               Thousand  of  miles  afar. 

To  hear  a  two  hours  sermon  i  Who  live  in  a  land  of  darknesc. 

On  a  theme  I  scarce  can  name  ;  )              Called  P^^i-ioboola  Gha. 


526 


TO  A  WATERFOWL. 


So  well  their  wants  he  pictured. 

That  when  the  box  was  passed, 
Each  listener  felt  his  pocket, 

And  goodly  sums  were  cast ; 
For  all  must  lend  a  shoulder 

To  push  the  rolling  car 
That  carries  light  and  comfort 

To  Borrioboola  Gha. 

That  night  their  wants  and  sorrows 

Lay  heavy  on  my  soul, 
And  deep  in  meditation, 

I  took  my  morning  stroll. 
When  something  caught  my  mantle 

With  eager  grasp  and  wild, 
And,  looking  down  in  wonder, 

I  saw  a  little  child  : 

A  pale  and  puny  creature. 

In  rags  and  dirt  forlorn  ; 
"  What  do  you  want  ?"  I  asked  her. 

Impatient  to  be  gone  ; 
With  trembling  voice  she  answered, 

"  We  live  just  down  the  street, 
And  mamma,  she's  a-dying. 

And  we've  nothing  left  to  eat.' 

Down  in  a  dark,  damp  cellar. 

With  mould  o'er  all  the  walls, 
Through  whose  half-buried  windows 

God's  sunlight  never  falls  ; 
Where  cold  and  want  and  hunger 

Crouched  near  her  as  she  lay, 
I  found  that  poor  child's  mother. 

Gasping  her  life  away. 

A  chair,  a  broken  table, 

A  bed  of  mouldy  straw, 
A  hearth  all  dark  and  fireless. — 

But  these  I  scarcely  saw, 


For  the  mournful  sight  before  me. 
So  sad  and  sickening, — oh, 

I  had  never,  never  pictured 
A  scene  so  full  of  woe ! 

The  famished  and  the  naked. 

The  babe  that  pined  for  bread, 
The  squalid  group  that  huddled 

Around  that  dying-bed; 
All  this  distress  and  sorrow 

Should  be  in  lands  afar  ! 
Was  I  suddenly  transported 

To  Borrioboola  Gha  ? 

Ah,  no !  the  poor  and  wretched 

Were  close  beside  my  door, 
And  I  had  passed  them  heedless 

A  thousand  times  before. 
Alas,  for  the  cold  and  hungry 

That  met  me  every  day, 
While  all  my  tears  were  given 

To  the  suffering  far  away ! 

There's  work  enough  for  Christiana 

In  distant  lands,  we  know. 
Our  Lord  commands  his  servants 

Through  all  the  world  to  go. 
Not  only  to  the  heathen  ; 

This  was  his  command  to  them, 
"  Go,  preach  the  word,  beginning 

Here,  at  Jerusalem." 

0  Christian  !  God  has  promised, 

Whoe'er  to  such  has  given 
A  cup  of  pure,  cold  water. 

Shall  find  reward  in  Heaven. 
Would  you  secure  this  blessing? 

You  need  not  seek  it  far ; — 
Go  find  in  yonder  hovel 

A  Borrioboola  Gha  ! 


TO  A    WATEBFOWL. 


^  -if** 


W.  ('.  RKYANT. 


1 


i'lTTIII^.R,  midflt  falling  dew, 

Wliilf:  glow  thf!  heavenfl  with  the 

last  atfipH  of  day, 
ar,  through  their  rosy  dfpths,  dost 

thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way  ? 


Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  (light  to  do  (heo 
wrong, 
As.  darkly  painted  on  tlio  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 


THE  VOICES  AT  THE  THRoNF. 


527 


Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 

Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  tlie  chafed  ocean  side  ? 


There  is  a  Power  whose  care 

Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air. 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned. 

At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere 


Yet  stood  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 
Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and 
rest. 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall 
bend. 
Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 

Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  on  my  heart 

Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  givenj. 
And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through   the   boundless    sky  thy 
certain  flight. 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone. 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


THE  VOICES  AT  THE  THRONE. 


T.   WESTWOOD. 


W,  LITTLE  child, 

Cte     A  little   meek-faced,   quiet   village 
child. 
Sat  singing  by  her  cottage  door  at 
eve 
A  low,  sweet  Sabbath  song.  No  human  ear 
Cauglit  the  faint  melody, — no  human  eye 
Beheld  the  upturned  aspect,  or  the  smile 
That  wreathed  her  innocent  lips  while  they 

breathed 
The  oft-repeated  burden  of  the  hymn, 
"  Praise  God  !     Praise  God  !" 

A  seraph  by  the  throne 
In  fall  glory  stood.     With  eager  hand 
He  smote  the  golden  harp-string,  till  a  flood 
Of  harmony  on  the  celestial  air 
Welled  forth  unceasing.    There,  with  a  great 

voice 
He  sang  the  "  Holy,  holy  evermore, 
Lord  God  Almighty !"  and  the  eternal  courts 


Thrilled  with  the  rapture,  and  the  hierarchies, 
Angel,  and    rapt  archangel,  throbbed    and 

burned 
With  vehement  adoration. 

Higher  yet 
Higher,  with  rich  magnificence  of  sound, 
Rose  the  majestic  anthem,  without  pause, 
To  its  full  strength ;   and  still   the  infinite 

heavens 
Rang  with  the  "  Holy,  holy  evermore  !" 
Till,  trembling  with  excessive  awe  and  love. 
Each  sceptered  spirit  sank  before  the  throne 
With  a  mute  hallelujah. 

But  even  then 
While  the  ecstatic  song  was  at  its  height. 
Stole  in  an  alien  voice — a  voice  that  seemed 
To  float,  float  upward  from  some  world  afar — 
A  meek  and  childlike  voice,  faint,  but  how 

sweet ! 
Tliat  blen<led  with  the  spirit's  rushing  straij 


528 


THE  THREE  SONS. 


Even  as  a  fountain's  music  with  the  roll 
Of  the  reverberate  thunder. 

Loving  smiles 
Lit  up  the  beauty  of  each  angel's  face 
At  that  new  utterance,  smiles   of  joy   that 

grew 
More  joyous  yet  as  ever  and  anon 
Was  heard  the  simple  burden  of  the  hymn, 
"  Praise  God  !  Praise  God  !" 


And  when  the  seraph's  song 
Had  reached  its  close,  and  o'er  the  golden  lyre 
Silence  hung   brooding, — when    the  eternal 

courts 
Rang  with  the  echoes  of  his  chant  sublime, 
Still  through  the  abysmal  space  that  wander- 
ing voice 
Came  floating  upward  from  its  world  afar, 
Still  murmured  sweet  on  the  celestial  air, 
"  Praise  God !     Praise  God ! 


THE  THREE  SONS. 


JOHN     MOULTRIE. 


HAVE  a  son,  a. little  son,  a  boy  just 
five  years  old. 
With  eyes  of  thoughtful  earnestness, 

and  mind  of  gentle  mould  ; 
They  tell  me  that  unusual  grace  in  all 

ihis  ways  appears, 
That  my  child  is  grave  and  wise  of 
heart  beyond  his  childish  years. 

I  cannot  say  how  this  may  be  ;  I  know  his 
face  is  fair. 

And  yet  his  chiefest  comeliness  is  his  sweet 
and  serious  air. 

I  know  his  heart  is  kind  and  fond  ;  I  know 
he  loveth  me, 

But  loveth  yet  his  mother  more,  with  grate- 
ful fervency. 

But  that  which  others  most  admire  is  the 
thought  which  fills  his  mind  ; 

The  food  for  grave,  inquiring  speech  he  every- 
where doth  find 

Ptrange  quefltions  doth  he  ask  of  me  when 
we  together  walk  ; 

Ho  Hcarrely  tliinks  as  children  think,  or  talks 
as  children  talk  ; 

Nor  cares  he  mmh  for  fhildish  sports,  dotes 
not  on  bat  or  ball. 

But  looks  on   manhood's  ways  and   works, 
and  aptly  mimics  all. 

HiH  little  hf-art  is  busy  Blill,  and  oftentimes 

y)t;rpl<'X<'d 
With  thoughts  about  this  world  of  ours,  and 
thoughts  about  the  next ; 


He  kneels  at  his  dear  mother's  knee,  she 

teaches  him  to  pray, 
And  strange  and  sweet  and  solemn  then  are 

the  words  which  he  will  say. 
Oh !    should   my  gentle   child  be   spared   to 

manhood's  yeais  like  me, 
A  holier  and  a  wiser  man  I  trust  that  he  will 

be: 
And  when  I  look  into  his  eyes  and  stroke 

his  thoughtful  brow, 
I  dare  not  think  what  I  should  feel,  were  I 

to  lose  him  now. 


I  have  a  son,  a  second  son,  a  simple  child  of 
three ; 
i  I'll  not  declare  how  bright  and  fair  his  little 
features  be ; 
How  silver  sweet  those  tones  of  his  when  he 

prattles  on  my  knee. 
I  do  not  think  his  light  blue  eye  is  like  his 

brother's  keen. 
Nor  his  brow  so  full  of  childish  thmiglit  as 

his  hath  ever  been  ; 
But  his  little  heart's  a  fountain  pure  of  kind 

and  tender  feeling, 
And  his  every  look's  a  gleam  of  liglit,  rith 
depths  of  lovo  revealing. 
'  When  he  walks  with   rao  the  country  folk 
I  who  pass  us  in  the  street, 

Will  speak  their  joy,  and  bless  my  boy,  hd 
I  looks  HO  mild  and  sweet. 


THE  LIFE  OF  A  CHILD  FAIRY. 


)29 


A   playfellow   he   is  to   all,  and   yet,   with 

cheerful  tone, 
Will  sing  his  little  song  of  love,  when  left  to 

sport  alone. 
His  presence  is  like  sunshine  sent  to  gladden 

home  and  hearth. 
To  comfort  us  in  all  our  griefs,  and  s^weeten 

all  our  mirth. 
Should  he  grow  up  to  riper  years,  God  grant 

his  heart  may  prove 
As  sweet  a  home  for  heavenly  grace  as  now 

for  earthly  love ! 
And  if,  beside  his  grave,  the  tears  our  aching 

eyes  must  dim, 
God  comfort  us  for  all  the  love  which  we  shall 

lose  in  him. 

I  have  a  son,  a  third  sweet  son ;  his  jige  I 

cannot  tell, 
For   they  reckon  not  by  years   or   months 

where  he  has  gone  to  dwell. 
To  us  for  fourteen  anxious  months,  his  infant 

smiles  were  given, 
And   then   he   bade  farewell   to  earth,  and 

went  to  live  in  heaven. 
I  cannot  tell  what  form  is  his,  what  looks 

he  weareth  now, 
Nor  guess  how  bright   a  glory  crowns  his 

shining  seraph  brow. 
The  thoughts    that  fill  his  sinless  soul,  the 

bliss  which  he  doth  feel. 
Are  numbered  with  the  secret  things  which 

God  will  not  reveal. 


But  I  know,  (for  God  hath  told  me  this)  that 

he  is  now  at  rest, 
Where    other  blessed  infants  are — on  their 

Saviour's  loving  breast. 
I  know  his  spirit  feels  no  more  this  weary 

load  of  flesh. 
But  his  sleep  is  blest  with  endless  dreams  of 

joy  forever  fresh. 
I  know  the  angels  fold  him  close  beneath 

their  glittering  wings, 
And  soothe  him  with  a  song  that  breathes  of 

heaven's  divinest  things. 
I  know  that  we  shall  meet  our  babe,  (his 

mother  dear  and  I), 
Where  God  for  aye  shall  wipe  away  all  tear* 

from  every  eye. 

Whate'er  befalls  his  bretliren  twain,  his  bliss 

can  never  cease ; 
Their  lot  may  here  be  grief  and  fear,  but  his 

is  certain  peace. 
It  may  be  that  the  tempter's  wiles  their  souls 

from  bliss  may  sever, 
But  if  our  own  poor  faith  fail  not,  he  must 

be  ours  forever. 
WTien  we  think  of  what  our  darling  is,  and 

what  we  still  must  be  ; 
When  we  muse  on  that  world's  perfect  bliss, 

and  this  world's  misery  : 
When  we   groan  beneath   this  load  of  sin, 

and  feel  this  grief  and  pain  ; 
Oh  I  we'd  rather  lose  our  other  two,  than 

have  him  here  again. 


THE  LIFE  OF  A  CHILD  FAIRY. 


ER  name  was  Sunbeam.     She  had  lovely,  waving,  golden  hair,  and 
beautiful  deep  blue  eyes,  and  such  a  cunning  little  mouth  ;  and  she 
was  three  inches  tall.     Perhaps  you  think  that  fairies  have  no  les- 
sons to  learn,  but  in  this  country  they  had  to  learn  the  language 
of  the   birds   and  animals,  so  that   they  could  talk  with  them. 
Sunbeam  lived  in  the  hollow  trunk  of  an  old  tree.     It  was  papered  with 
the  lightest  green  leaves  that  could  be  found.     The  rooms  were  separated 
by  birch  bark.     Every  morning  when  Sunbeam  arose  from  her  bed  of 
36 


530 


THE  LIFE  OF  A  CHILD  FAIRY 


apple  blossoms,  she  had  to  learn  a  lesson  in  the  bird  language ;  but  it  was 
not  hard,  for  her  mother  went  with  her  and  told  her  what  they  said. 
When  her  lesson  was  done  she  sprang  away  to  meet  her  playmates — and 
oh !  what  fun  they  had !  They  made  a  swing  out  of  a  vine,  and  almost 
flew  ihroui'h  the  air.  They  sometimes  jumped  on  a  robin's  back  and  had 
a  ride.  They  played  hide  and  seek  in  the  birds'  nests,  and  in  the  spring 
picked  open  the  buds,  and  when  tliey  were  tired,  sat  on  the  dandelions,  or 
on  a  horse  chestnut  leaf,  or  in  a  full  blown  apple  blossom.  But  if  any  one 
came  into  the  woods  they  scampered  away  as  fast  as  they  could,  for  little 
fairies  are  very  shy. 

The  afternoon  was  much  like  the  forenoon,  but  the  evening  was  the 
pleasantest  time  of  all.  Every  pleasant  night  just  before  dark.  Sunbeam's 
mother  dressed  her  in  her  apple-blossom  dress,  with  two  little  lily-of-the- 
valley  bells  fastened  like  tassels  to  her  green  sash  of  grass  blades.  Her 
slippers  were  made  from  blue  violets  and  her  hair  was  tied  with  the  threads 
of  blue  forget-me-nots  woven  together.  Her  mother  and  her  father  were 
dressed  in  light  green.  A  little  after  dark  they  started  for  their  fairy 
haunt  with  fire-flies  for  lanterns.  The  haunt  was  in  the  thickest  part  of 
the  forest ;  it  was  covered  with  moss,  and  a  brook  flowed  through  the 
centre  of  the  enclosure.  One  hundred  gentlemen  fairies  with  their  wives 
and  children  were  waiting  here.  Each  had  a  fire-fly  lantern.  Very  soon, 
from  the  brush  wood,  out  sprang  two  white  mice,  harnessed  to  a  carriage 
made  of  dandelions  with  the  stems  so  woven  together  that  the  flowers 
formed  the  outside.  The  inside  was  lined  with  white  violets.  In  this 
chariot  sat  the  queen  of  the  Forget-me-not  fairies  (for  there  are  different 
famiHes  of  fairies).  The  queen  was  dressed  in  a  robe  made  of  a  deep  red 
tulip,  and  she  had  a  sash  of  lilies  of  the  valley.  Her  black  hair  was  fas- 
tened with  what  looked  like  a  pearl,  but  really  was  a  tiny  drop  of  water 
crystalized.  Beside  her  rode  her  maids  of  honor  with  dresses  of  blue 
violets.  The  queen  took  her  place  upon  the  throne,  and  around  her  stood 
her  maids  of  honor.  The  queen  then  began  to  sing,  and  the  fairies  danced 
to  the  music.     This  lasted  till  midnight,  and  then  the  fairies  wont  home. 

You  can  easily  imagine  Sunbeam's  life  through  the  summer  and 
auturnn  ;  but  if  you  think  she  hid  in  her  house  all  winter,  you  are  mis- 
taken. Id  tlio  autumn  the  fathers  r.f  the  fairies  had  gathered  the  bright 
colored  leaves,  and  the  mothors  had  made  them  into  warm  winter  (h-esses 
and  cloak.s.  Sunlxsam  had  a  muff  of  swan's  down.  Tlie  great  sj>ort  in 
winter  was  the  (piecn's  ball,  to  whi(!h  all  the  fairies  came.  I  wish  I  had 
time  to  tell  you  all  aVjout  it,  for  it  was  SuiiVujam's  last  appearance  as  a  child 
fairy,  as  the  next  spring  she  was  tall  enough  to  Ix;  a  full-grown  fairy. 


NOT  ON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 


531 


NOT  ON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 


JOHN    riERPONT. 


NO,  no, — let  me  lie 
Not  on  a  field  of  battle,  when  I  die. 

Let  not  the  iron  tread 
Of    the   mad   war-horse   crush   my 
helmed  head ; 
Nor  let  the  reeking  knife, 
That  I  have  drawn  against  a  brother's 
life. 
Be  in  my  hand  wheR  death 
Thunders  along,  and  tramples  me  beneath 

His  heavy  squadron's  heels, 
Or  gory  felloes  of  his  cannon's  wheels. 

From  such  a  dying  bed, 
Though  o'er  it  float  the  stripes  of  white  and 
red. 
And  the  bald  eagle  brings 
The   clustered    stars    upon    his   wide-spread 
wings. 
To  sparkle  in  my  sight, 
0,  never  let  my  spirit  take  her  flight ! 

I  know  that  beauty's  eye 
Is  all  the  brighter  where  gay  pennants  fly. 

And  brazen  helmets  dance. 
And  sunshine  flashes  on  the  lifted  lance  ; 

I  know  that  bards  have  sung. 
And  people  shouted  till  the  welkin  rung. 

In  honor  of  the  brave 
Who    on    the    battle-field    have    found    a 
grave. 

1  know  that  o'er  their  bones 
Have  grateful  hands  piled  monumental  stones. 

Some  of  those  piles  I've  seen  : 
The  one  at  Lexington  upon  the  green 

"Where  the  first  blood  was  shed, 
And  to  my  country's  independence  led  ; 

And  others  on  our  shore, 
The  "  Battle  Monument"  at  Baltimore, 

And  that  on  Bunker's  Hill. 
Ay,  and  abroad  a  few  more  famous  still : 

Thy  "  tomb  "  Themistocles, 
That  looks  out  yet  upon  the  Grecian  seas, 

And  which  the  waters  kiss 


That  issue  from  the  gulf  of  Salamis ; 
And  thine  too  have  I  seen, — 
Thy   mound    of  earth,   Patroclus,  robed 
green. 


THE    BATTLi:    :.1li.\LM1.-M. 

That  like  a  natural  knoll, 
Sheep  climb  and  nibble  over  as  they  stroll. 

Watched  by  some  turbaned  boy. 
Upon  the  margin  of  the  plain  of  Troy. 

Such  honors  grace  the  bed, 
I  know,  whereon  the  warrior  lays  his  head, 

And  hears,  as  life  ebbs  out, 
The  conquered  flying,  and  the  conqueror's 
shout, 

But,  as  his  eye  grows  dim, 
What  is  a  column  or  a  mound  to  him  ? 

Wliat  to  the  parting  soul. 
The  mellow  note  of  bugles  ?     What  the  roll 


532 


SAM  WELLER'S  VALENTINE. 


Of  drums  ?    Xo,  let  me  die 
Where  the  blue  heaven  bends  o'er  me  lovingly, 

And  the  soft  summer  air, 
As    it  goes  by   me,   stirs    my    thin,   white 
hair, 

And  from  my  forehead  dries 
The  death  damp  as  it  gathers,  and  the  skies 

Seem  waiting  to  receive 
My  soul  to  their  clear  depths.  Or  let  me  leave 

The  world,  when  round  my  bed 
Wife,  children,  weeping  friends,  are  gathered. 

And  the  calm  voice  of  prayer 
And  holy  hymning  shall  my  soul  prepare. 

To  go  and  be  at  rest 
With  kindred  spirits,  spirits  who  have  blessed 

The  human  brotherhood 
By  labors,  cares,  and  counsels  for  their  good. 

In  my  dj'ing  hour. 
When  riches,  fame,  and  honor,  have  no  power 
To  bear  the  spirit  up, 


Or  from  my  iips  to  turn  aside  the  cup 

That  all  must  drink  at  last, 
0,  let  me  draw  refreshment  from  the  pasti 

Then  let  my  soul  run  back. 
With  peace  and  joy,  along  my  earthly  track, 

And  see  that  all  the  seeds 
That  I  have  scattered  there  in  virtuous  deeds, 

Have  sprung  up,  and  have  given, 
Already,  fruits  of  which  to  taste  in  heaven. 

And  though  no  grassy  mound 
Or  granite  pile  says  'tis  heroic  ground 

Where  my  remains  repose. 
Still  will  I  hope, — vain  hope,  perhaps, — thai 
those 

WTiom  I  have  striven  to  bless, — 
The  wanderer  reclaimed,  the  fatherless, — 

May  stand  around  my  grave, 
With  the  poor  prisoner  and  the  lowest  slave, 

And  breathe  an  humble  prayer. 

That  they  may  die  like  him  whose  bones  are 

moldering  there. 


SAM  WELLER'S  VALENTINE. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


j'VE  done  now,"  said  Sam,  with  slight  embarrassment ;  "  I  ve  been  a 
writin'." 

"So  I  see,"  replied  Mr.  Wollor.     "Not  to  any  young  'ooman,  I 
T      hope,  Sammy." 

f  "  Why,  it's  no  use  a  sayin'  it  ain't,"  replied  Sam.     "  It's  a  wal- 

1        entine." 
"  A  what  ?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Weller,  apparently  horror-stricken  by  th« 
word. 

"A  walcntine,"  replied  Sam. 

"  Samivel,  Samivel,"  said  'Wv.  Woller,  in  reproachful  accents,  "T 
didn't  'think  you'd  ha'  done  it.  Arter  the  warnin'  you've  had  o'  your 
father's  wicious  propensities;  arter  all  I've  said  to  you  upon  this  here  wery 
subject ;  arter  actiwally  seoin'  and  boin'  in  the  company  o'  your  own 
mother-in-law,  vich  I  should  ha'  thought  was  a  moral  lesson  as  no  man 
could  ever  ha'  forgotten  to  his  dyin'  day  !  I  didn't  think  you'd  ha'  done 
it,  Sammv,  I   didn't  think   you'd  h;i'  dDiic  it."     Tiiese  reflections  woro  too 


SAM  WELLEU'S  VALENTINE.  533 


much  for  the  good  old  in;iii;  he  raised  Sam's  tumLlor  to  his  lips  and  drank 
off  the  contents. 

"  Wot's  the  matter  now  ?"  said  Sam. 

"  Nev'r  mind,  Sammy,"  replied  Mr.  Weller,  "  it'll  be  a  wery  agonizin 
trial  to  mo  at  my  time  o'  life,  but  I'm  pretty  tough,  that's  vuu  consolation, 
as  the  wery  old  turkey  remarked  vcn  the  farmer  said  he  vos  afeerd  he 
should  be  obliged  to  kill  him  for  the  London  market." 

"  Wot'U  be  a  trial  ?"  inquired  Sam. 

"To  see  you  married,  Sammy;  to  see  you  a  deluded  wictim,  and 
thinkin'  in  your  innocence  that  it's  all  wery  capital,"  replied  Mr.  Weller, 
"  It's  a  dreadful  trial  to  a  father's  feelin's,  that  'ere,  Sammy." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Sam,  "  I  ain't  a  goin'  to  get  married,  don't  you  fret 
yourself  about  that.  I  know  you're  a  judge  0'  these  things ;  order  in  your 
pipe,  an'  I'll  read  you  the  letter — there !" 

Sam  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink  to  be  ready  for  any  corrections,  and 
began  with  a  very  theatrical  air — 

"  'Lovely 

"  Stop,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  ringing  the  bell.  "  A  double  glass  0'  the 
inwariable,  my  dear." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  replied  the  girl,  who,  with  great  quickness,  appeared, 
vanished,  returned,  and  disappeared. 

"  They  seem  to  know  your  ways  here,"  observed  Sam. 

''  Yes,"  replied  his  father,  "  I've  been  here  before,  in  my  time.  Go 
on,  Sammy," 

"  '  Lovely  creetur','  "  repeated  Sam. 

"  'Taint  in  poetry,  is  it?"  interposed  the  father. 

"  No,  no,"  replied  Sam. 

"  Wery  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr.  Wdler.  "  Poetry's  unnat'ral.  No 
man  ever  talked  in  poetry  'cept  a  beadle  on  boxin'  day,  or  Warren's  black- 
in'  or  Ptowland's  oil,  or  some  o'  them  low  fellows.  Never  3'ou  let  yourself 
down  to  talk  poetry,  my  boy.     Begin  again,  Sammy." 

"  Mr,  Weller  resumed  his  pipe  with  critical  solemnity,  and  Sam  onc« 
more  commenced  and  read  as  follows : 

"  '  Lovely  creetur'  i  feel  mj'-self  a  damned  '  " — 

"  That  ain't  proper,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  taking  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth. 

"No:  it  ain't  damned,"  observed  Sam,  holding  the  letter  up  to  the 
light,  "  it's  'shamed,'  there's  a  blot  there  ;  '  i  feel  myself  ashamed.'  " 

"  Wery  good,"  said  Mr.  Weller.     "  Go  on." 

"  '  Feel  myself  ashamed,  an<I  completely  cir — .'     I  forget  wot  this 


534  ^-^^  WELLERS  VALENTINE. 

'ere  word  is,"  said  Sam,  scratcliing  bis  bead  with  tbe  pen,  in  vaiu  attempts 
to  remember. 

"  Why  don't  you  look  at  it,  then  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Weller. 

"So  I  ain  a  lookin'  at  it,"  repUed  Sam,  "but  there's  another  blot: 
here's  a  'c,'  and  a  '  i,'  and  a  'd.'  " 

"  Circumwented,  p'rhaps,"  suggested  Mr.  Weller. 

"No,  it  aint  that,"  said  Sam:  "  '  circumscribed,'  that's  it." 

"  That  aint  as  good  a  word  as  circumwented,  Sammy,"  said  Mr. 
Weller,  gravely. 

"Think  not?"  said  Sam. 

"  Nothin'  like  it,"  replied  his  father. 

"But  don't  you  think  it  means  more?"  inquired  Sam. 

"Veil,  p'rhaps  it's  a  more  tenderer  word,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  after  a 
few  moments'  reflection.     "  Go  on,  Sammy." 

"'Feel  myself  ashamed  and  completely  circumscribed  in  a  dressin'  of 
you,  for  you  are  a  nice  gal  and  nothin'  but  it.'  " 

"  That's  a  wery  pretty  sentiment,"  said  the  elder  Mr.  Weller,  removing 
his  pipe  to  make  way  for  the  remark. 

"  Yes,  I  think  it's  rayther  good,"  observed  Sam,  highly  flattered. 

"Wot  I  like  in  that  'ere  style  of  writin',"  said  the  elder  INIr.  Weller, 
"  is,  that  there  ain't  no  callin'  names  in  it — no  Wenuses,  nor  nothin'  o'  that 
kind;  wot's  the  good  o'  callin'  a  young  'ooman  a  Wenus  or  a  juigel, 
Sammy?  " 

"Ah!  wot  indeed?"  replied  Sam. 

"You  might  just  as  veil  call  hor  a  griffin,  or  a  unicorn,  or  a  king's 
arms  at  once,  which  is  wory  veil  known  to  be  a  col-lection  o'  fabulous 
animals,"  added  Mr.  Weller. 

"Just  as  well,"  replied  Sam. 

"  Drive  on,  Sammy,"  said  Mr.  Weller. 

Sam  complied  with  ib^'  rrTpiest,  and  proceeded  as  follows:  his  lather 
continuing  to  smoke,  with  ;i  niix^xl  expression  of  wisdom  and  com})lacency, 
wh'ich  was  particularly  odifying. 

"  '  Afore  i  see  you  i  thought  all  women  was  alike'" 

"So  tlK-y  are,"  observod  tlic  elder  Mi".  Weller,  pai-onllietically. 

"'But  now,'  "  continued  Sam,  "  '  imw  F  (iml  wot  a,  reg'lai-  .soft-beaded, 
ink-red'lous  turnip  i  must  ha'  been,  fm-  there  ain't  nobody  like  you,  though 
i  like  you  better  than  nothin'  at  all.'  I  thought  it  best  to  make  that  ray- 
ther strong,"  said  Sam,  looking  up. 

Mr.  Well«;r  nodded  approvingly,  and  Sam  resumed. 


SAM  WELLER'S  VALENTINi^.  535 


"  '  So  i  take  the  privilidge  of  the  day,  Mary,  my  dear, — as  the 
gen'lem'n  in  difficulties  did,  ven  he  valked  out  of  a  Sunday, — to  tell  you 
that  the  first  and  only  time  i  see  you  your  likeness  wos  took  on  my  hart 
in  much  quicker  time  and  brighter  colors  than  ever  a  likeness  was  taken 
by  the  profeel  macheen  (wich  p'rhaps  you  may  have  heerd  on  Mary  my 
dear),  altho'  it  does  finish  a  portrait  and  put  the  frame  and  glass  on  com- 
plete with  a  hook  at  the  end  to  hang  it  up  by,  and  all  in  two  minutes  and 
a  quarter.' " 

"  I  am  afeerd  that  werges  on  the  poetical,  Sammy,"  said  Mr.  Wellcr, 
dubiously. 

"  No  it  don't,"  replied  Sam,  reading  on  very  quickly  to  avoid  contest- 
ing the  point. 

"  '  Except  of  me  Mary  my  dear  as  your  walentine,  and  think  over 
what  I've  said.  My  dear  Mary  I  will  now  conclude.'  That's  all,"  said 
Sam. 

"That's  rayther  a  sudden  pull-up,  ain't  it,  Sammy?"  inquired  Mr. 
Waller. 

"  Not  a  bit  on  it,"  said  Sam  :  "  she'll  vish  there  wos  more,  and  that's 
the  great  art  o'  letter  writin'." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  "  there's  somethin'  in  that ;  and  I  vish  your 
Mother-in-law  'ud  only  conduct  her  conwersation  on  the  same  gen-teel 
principle.     Ain't  you  a  goin'  to  sign  it?" 

"  That's  the  difficulty,"  said  Sam;  "  I  don't  know  what  to  sign  it." 

"  Sign  it — Veller,"  said  the  oldest  surviving  proprietor  of  that 
name. 

"  Won't  do,"  said  Sam.  "  Never  sign  a  walentine  with  your  own 
name." 

"  Sign  it  Pickvick  then,"  said  Mr.  Weller;  ''it's  a  wery  good  name, 
and  a  easy  one  to  spell." 

"  The  wery  thing,"  said  Sam.  "  I  could  end  with  a  werse:  what  do 
you  think  ?" 

"  I  don't  like  it,  Sam,"  rejoined  Mr.  Weller.  "  I  never  know'd  a 
respectable  coachman  as  wrote  poetry,  'cept  one  as  made  an  affectin'  copy 
o'  werses  the  night  afore  he  wos  hung  for  a  highway  robbery,  and  he  wos 
only  a  Cambervell  man,  so  even  that's  no  rule." 

But  Sam  was  not  to  be  dissuaded  from  the  poetical  idea  that  had 
occurred  to  him,  so  he  signed  the  letter — 

"  Your  love-Bick 
Pickwick." 


536 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE. 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE. 


THOMAS    BUCHANAN    READ. 


&jl^«^P  from  the  South  at  break  of  <lay, 
lllil^  Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 


^.V^f  The  alfrighte-l     air   willi/a  f^hudflor 


/ 


horf 


Likf!  a  licrald    in  liaste,  to    the  chief- 
tain's door, 
The  terrihlc  grnmlde,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Tlmndered  along  the  horizon's  bar  ; 
^"A  louder  yet  into  Winchobter  rolled 


The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrullod, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 
As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray. 
Ami  Sheri<lan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  th'Ti-  is  a  rn:iil  frum  Wim-hester  (own, 

A  gooil,  broad  higliway  lrii<ling  down  ; 

And  there  througli  tlie  Hush  of  the  iiinrning 

A  sl.-ed  as  hia.k  ;is  \\v  ste-<i.M  of  night, 
Was  seen  to  ]>iiss,  as  with  eagle  Hight. 
As  if  h<'  kiMW  the  terrilde  need, 
He  Htretcbod  away  at  his  utmost  speed ; 


GOD. 


o37 


Hills  rose  and  fell,  but  his  heart  was  gay, 
With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thunder- 
ing South, 

The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's 
mouth  ; 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and 
faster. 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed,  and  the  heart  of  the 
master 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their 
walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls  ; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to 
full  play. 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 
And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 
Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the    wind, 
And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire. 
Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire. 
But  lo  !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire ; 
He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 
And  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 


The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  the  retreating  troops : 
What  was  done, — what  to  do, — a  glance  told 

him  both, 
And  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible  oath. 
He   dashed  down  the  line,  'mid  a  storm  of 

huzzas, 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course 

there,  because 
The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  wi*h  dust  the  black  charger 

was  gray  ; 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  his  red  nostril's 

play. 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  groat  army  to  say, 
"  I've  brought  you  Sheridan  all-the  way. 
From  Winchester  down  to  save  the  day." 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  for  horse  and  man ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, — 
The  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, 
There  with  the  glorious  General's  name 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright : 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight. 
From  Winchester, — twenty  miles  away  !" 


GOD. 


FROM    THE    RUSSIAN   OF   DERZHAVIN. 


TIIOU  eternal  One!  whose  presence 

bright 
All   space   doth    occupy,   all  motion 

guide ; 
Unchang'd  through  time's  all-devasta- 
ting flight ! 
Thou  only  God  !     There  is  no  God 
beside ! 
Being  above  all  beings  !     Three-in  one  ! 
Whom    none    can    comprehend,    and    none 

explore ; 
Who  fiU'st  existence  with  Thyself  alone; 
Embracing  all — supporting — ruling  o'er — 
Being   whom   we   call   God — and   know   no 
more ! 


In  its  sublime  research,  philosophy 
Ma)"^    measure    out    the    ocean    deep — may 

count 
The  sands,  or  the  sun's  rays — but  God !  for 

Thee 
There  is  no  weight  nor  measure ; — none  can 

mount 
Up   to    Thy  mysteries.     Reason's    brightest 

spark, 
Though  kindled  by  Thy  light,  in  vain  would 

try 
To  trace  Thy  counsels,  infinite  and  dark ; 
And  thought  is  lost  ere  thought  can  soar  so 

high— 
E'en  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 


638 


GOD. 


Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call,  ' 
First  chaos,  then  existence  ; — Lord !  on  Thee  | 
Eternity  had  its  foundation  ; — all  J 

Sprung    forth    from    Thee; — of    light,    joy, 

harmony. 
Sole  origin  ; — all  life,  all  beauty.  Thine. 
Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create ; 
Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine  ; 
Thou  art,  and  wert,  and  shalt  be !     Glorious, 
Life-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate! 

Thy    chains     the     unmeasured     universe 

surround  ; 
Upheld  by    Thee ;    by   Thee   inspired   with 

breath ! 
Thou    the    beginning    with    the    end    hast 

bound. 
And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death  ! 
As  sparks  mount  upward  from  the  fiery  blaze 
So  suns  are  born,  so  worlds  spring  forth  from 

Thee, 
And  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays 
Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 
Of   heaven's  bright  army    glitters   in    Thy 

praise. 

A  million  torches  lighted  by  Thy  hand 
Wander  unwearied  through  the  blue  abyss ; 
They  own  Thy  power,  accomplish  Thy  com- 
mand, 
All  gay  with  life,  all  eloquent  with  bliss. 
What  shall  we  call  them  ?     Pyres  of  crystal 

light — 
A  glorious  company  of  golden  streams — 
Lamps  of  celestial  ether  burning  bright — 
Buns    lighting    systems    with    tlieir    joyful 

beams  ? 
But  Thou  to  these  art  as  th';  uo«n  to  night. 

Yes!  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea. 
All  this  rnagnificencf!  in  Thee  is  lost; 
What  are  t'li  thousand  worlds  compared  to 

Thee  ? 
And  wliat  am   /  then?     Hfaven's   unuuin- 

l>ered  lio^t, 
Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  arrayed 
In  all  tlie  glory  of  Hublimest  tliought. 
Is  l)ut  :in  ;itom  in  the  balaiH'o  w<Mglir-d 
Agaiubt  Thy  grcatnoss, — u  a  ciphor  brought 


Against     infinity !       Wliat     am     I    then  1 

Naught ! 
Naught  I     But   the   effluence    of    Thy   light 

Divine, 
Pervading  worlds,  hath  reached  my  bosom. 

too ; 
Yes,  in  my  spirit  doth  Thy  Spirit  shine. 
As  shines  the  sunbeam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 

Naught  I  but  I  live,  and  on  hope's  pinioni 

fly 

Eager  toward  Thy  presence ;  for  in  Thee 

I   live,    and   breathe,    and   dwell ;    aspiring 

high 
Even  to  the  throne  of  Thy  Divinity, 
I  am  0  God  !  and  surely  TJiou  must  be! 
Thou  art!  directing,  guiding  all!  Thou  art! 
Direct  my  understanding  then  to  Thee. 
Control    my    spirit,    guide    my    wandering 

heart ; 
Though  but  an  atom  midst  immensity, 
Still   I    am    something,   fashioned    by  Thy 

hand ! 
I  hold  a   middle  rank,  'twixt  hi;av«n    and 

earth. 
On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand, 
Close  to  the  realm  where  angels  have  their 

birth, 
Tust  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spiril-land  ! 
The  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me ; 
In  me  is  matter's  last  gradation  lost, 
And  the  next  step  is  sjiirit — Deity ! 
I  can  command  the  lightning,  and  am  dust! 
A  monarch,  and  a  slave  ;  a  worm,  a  god  ! 
Whence  came  I  here,  and  how  ?  so  marvel- 

ously 
Constructed     and     conceived?      Unknown  I 

this  clod 
Lives  surely  Ihrougli  some  liigher  energy  ; 
For  from  itself  alone  it  could  not  be  ! 
Creator,  yes !     Thy  wisdom  and  Thy  word 
Created  mc  !     Thf)U  source  of  life  and  good  ! 
Tiiou  Spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord  ! 
Thy  light.  Thy  love,  in  tiie  bright  plinitud*^ 
Filled  me  with  an  immortal  houI  to  spring 
Ov<T  the  ubysH  of  death,  and  bade  it  wear 
Tlio  garments  of  eternal  day,  and  wing 
It«  heavf^nly  flight  beyond  tin-  little  sphere, 
Even  to  its  source — 1<>  Thoi- — its  aiillior  there 

U  Uiuughls  iuuflable  !     (J  visiuuu  bleat  t 


REBECCA  DESCRIBES  THE  SIEGE  TO  IVANHOE.  539 


Though  worthless  our  conception  all  of  Thee,      Thus  seek   Thy  presence — Being  wise  an  J 
Yet  snail  Thy  shadowed  image  fill  our  breast,  |  good, 

A.nd  waft  its  homage  to  Thy  Deity.  Midst  Thy  vast  works  admire,  obey,  adore 

iod !  thus    alone    my   lonely   thoughts   can  }  And  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more, 
soar;  ■  The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  of  gratitude. 


REBECCA  DESCRIBES  THE  SIEGE  TO  IVANHOE. 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT. 


^^OOK  from  the  window  once  again,  Icind   maiden,  but  beware  that 
i^    you  are  not  marked  by  the  archers  beneath — Look  out  once  more, 
and  tell  me  if  they  yet  advance  to  the  storm." 

"With  patient  courage,  strengthened  by  the  interval  which  she 
had  employed  in  mental  devotion,  Eebecca  again  took  post  at  the 
«J        lattice,  sheltering  herself,  however,  so  as  not  to  be  visible  from 
beneath. 

"What  dost  thou  see,  Rebecca?"  again  demanded  the  wounded 
knight. 

"Nothing  but  the  cloud  of  arrows  flying  so  thick  as  to  dazzle  mine 
eyes,  and  to  hide  the  bowmen  who  shoot  them." 

"  That  cannot  endure,"  said  Ivanhoe  ;  "  if  they  press  not  right  on  to 
3arry  the  castle  by  pure  force  of  arms,  the  archery  may  avail  but  little 
against  stone  walls  and  bulwarks.  Look  for  the  Knight  of  the  Fetterlock, 
fair  Rebecca,  and  see  how  he  bears  himself;  for  as  the  leader  is,  so  will 
his  followers  be." 

"  I  see  him  not,"  said  Rebecca. 

"Foul  craven  !  "  exclaimed  Ivanhoe;  "does  he  blench  from  the  helm 
when  the  wind  blows  highest  ?  " 

"  He  blenches  not !  he  blenches  not !  "  said  Rebecca,  "  I  see  him  now  ; 
he  leads  a  body  of  men  close  under  the  outer  barrier  of  the  barbican.-  — 
They  pull  down  the  piles  and  palisades ;  they  hew  down  the  barriers  with 
axes. — His  high  black  plume  floats  abroad  over  the  throng,  like  a  raven 
over  the  field  of  the  slain. — They  have  made  a  breach  in  the  barriers — 
they  rush  in — they  are  thrust  back  ! — Front-de-Boeuf  heads  the  defen- 
ders ;  I  see  his  gigantic  form  above  the  press.  They  throng  again  to  the 
breach,  and  the  pass  is  disputed  hand  to  hand,  and  man  to  man.  God  of 
Jacob !  it  is  the  meeting  of  two  fierce  tides — the  conflict  of  two  oceans 
moved  bv  adverse  winds !  " 


540 


REBECCA  DESCRIBES  THE  SIEGE  TO  IVANHOE. 


She  turned  her  head  from  the  lattice,  as  if  unable  longer  to  endure  a 
sight  so  terrible. 

"Look  forth  again,  Eebecca,"  saidlvanhoe,  mistaking  the  cause  of  her 
retiring  ;  "  the 
archery  must  in 
a  degree  have 
ceased ;  for  they 
are  now  fighting 
hand  to  hand. — 
Look,  there  is 
now  less  dan- 
ger." 

Rebecca  again 
looked  forth  and 
almost  immedi- 
ately exclaimed, 
"  Holy  proph- 
ets of  the  law  ' 
Front-de-  Boeul 
and  the  Black 
Knight  fight  oil 
the  beach  hand 
to  hand,  amid 
the  roar  of  their 
followers,  who 
watch  the  prog- 
ress of  the  strife. 
Heaven  strike 
with  the  caus- 
of  the  oppres.se  1 
and  of  the  caj)- 
tive!"  She  then 
uttered  a  loud 
shriek,  and  ex- 
claimed, "He  in 
down  ! — ho  is  down  !  " 

"  Wiio  is  down  ?  "  cried  Ivanhoe. 

"  Th*'  Black  Knight,"  answered  li('l)Occa,  faintly  ;  then  instantly 
again  shouted  with  joyful  eagerness — "  But  no — but  no  ! — the  name  of  the 
Lord  of  hosts  be  blessed ! — he  is  on  foot  again,  and  fights  as  if  there  werQ 


nil,  .\.N(.ii;.Nr  .sii:u.\i;iiui,ii 


REBECCA  DESCRIBES  THE  SIEGE  TO  IVANHOE.  541 


twenty  men's  strength  in  his  single  arm— His  sword  is  broken — he  snatcLe3 
an  axe  from  a  yeoman — he  presses  Front-de-Boeuf  with  blow  on  blow — ■ 
The  giant  stoops  and  totters  like  an  oak  under  the  steel  of  the  woodman 
—he  falls— he  falls  !  " 

"Front-de-Boeuf?"  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

" Front-de-BcBuf !  "  answered  the  Jewess;  "his  men  rush  to  the 
rescue,  headed  by  the  haughty  Templar — their  united  force  compels  the 
champion  to  pause — They  drag  Front-de-Boeuf  within  the  walls." 

"  The  assailants  have  won  the  barriers,  have  they  not  ?  "  said 
Ivanhoe. 

"They  have — they  have !  "  exclaimed  Ptebecca  "and  tbey  press  the 
besieged  hard  upon  the  outer  wall ;  some  plant  ladders,  some  swarm  like 
bees,  and  endeavor  to  ascend  upon  the  shoulders  of  each  other — down  go 
stones,  beams,  and  trunks  of  trees  upon  their  heads,  and  as  jast  as  they 
bear  the  wounded  to  the  rear,  fresh  men  supply  their  places  in  the  assault. 
— Great  God  !  hast  thou  given  men  thine  own  image,  that  it  should  be 
thus  cruelly  defaced  by  the  hands  of  their  brethren  !  " 

"  Thmk  not  of  that,"  said  Ivanhoe ;  "  this  is  no  time  for  such 
thoughts — Who  yield  ? — who  push  their  way  ?  " 

"  The  ladders  are  thrown  down,"  rephed  Kebecca,  shuddering  ;  "  the 
soldiers  lie  grovelling  under  them  like  crushed  reptiles— The  besieged 
have  the  better." 

"  Saint  George  strike  for  us ! "  exclaimed  the  knight ;  "do  the  false 
yeomen  give  way  ?  " 

"No  !"  exclaimed  Rebecca,  "  they  bear  themselves  right  yeoraanly— 
the  Black  Knight  approaches  the  postern  with  his  huge  axe — the  thun- 
dering blows  which  be  deals,  you  may  hear  them  above  all  the  din  and 
shouts  of  the  battle — Stones  and  beams  are  hailed  down  on  the  bold  cham- 
pion— he  regards  them  no  more  than  if  they  were  thistle-down  or 
feathers  !  " 

"  By  Saint  John  of  Acre,"  said  Ivanhoe,  raising  himself  joyfully  on 
his  coij^ch,  "  methought  there  was  but  one  man  in  England  that  might  do 
such  a  deed ! " 

"The  postern  gate  shakes,"  continued  Rebecca;  "it  crashes — it  is 
splintered  by  his  blows — they  rush  in — the  outwork  is  won — Oh,  God ! — 
they  hurl  the  defenders  from  the  battlements — they  throw  them  into  the 
moat — 0  men,  if  ye  be  indeed  men,  spare  them  that  can  resist  no 
longer !  " 

"  The  bridge — the  bridge  which  communicates  with  the  castle — have 
they  won  that  pass  ?  "  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 


542 


THE  LAST  LEAF. 


"No,"  replied  Rebecca,  "the  Templar  has  destroYed  the  plank  on 
which  they  crossed — few  of  the  defenders  escaped  with  him  into  the  castle 
— the  shrieks  and  cries  which  you  hear  tell  the  fate  of  the  others — Alas  ! 
I  see  it  is  still  more  difficult  to  look  upon  victory  than  upon  battle." 


^-■^ 


Til /'J  LAST  LEAF. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 


SAW  him  once  bpforf, 
Ah  he  i<:iHHf(\  ])y  thf  <loor ; 

And  again 
The  pavement  Btones  reHoun<l 
Afl  he  tottera  oVt  tlie  ground 

With  his  cane. 


Tliey  say  that  in  hi«  prime, 
Kii'  tin-  |irimirig  knife  of  time 

('ill  liiin  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  fumi'l 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 


JOHN  JANKIN'S  SERMON. 


543 


But  now  he  walks  the  street*, 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 

And  he  looks  at  all  he  meeta 

And  it  rests  upon  his  chin, 

So  forlorn ; 

Like  a  staff; 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back. 

That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

And  a  melancholy  crack 

"  Tliey  are  gone." 

In  his  laugh. 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  pressed 

For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

In  their  bloom ; 

At  him  here, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 

Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

And  the  breeches, — and  all  that; 

On  the  tomb. 

Are  so  queer  1 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 

Poor  old  lady  !  she  is  dead 

The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

Long  ago— 

In  the  spring, 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 

And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

In  the  snow. 

Where  I  cling. 

JOHN  JANKIN'S  SERMON 

SRli^HE  minister  said  last  night,  says  he, 
"  Don't  be  afraid  of  givin' ; 


w^ 


If  your  life  ain't  nothin'  to  other 
folks. 
Why  what's  the  use  of  livin'  ?" 
And  that's  what  I  say  to  my  wife, 
says  I, 

"There's  Brown,  that  mis'rable  sin- 
ner. 
He'd  sooner   a  beggar  would   starve,  than 
give 
A  cent  towards  buyin'  a  dinner." 

I  tell  you  our  minister's  prime,  he  is. 

But  I  couldn't  quite  determine. 
When  I  heard  him  givin'  it  right  and  left 

Just  who  was  hit  by  the  sermon. 
Of  course  there  couldn't  be  no  mistake. 

When  he  talked  of  long-winded  prayin'. 
For    Peters     and     Johnson    they    sot    and 
scowled 

At  every  word  he  was  sayin'. 

And  the  minister  he  went  on  to  say, 
"  Ther's  various  kinds  of  cheatin' 


And  religion's  as  good  for  every  day 

As  it  is  to  bring  to  meetin'. 
I  don't  think  much  of  a  man  that  givea 

The  loud  Amens  at  my  preachin'. 
And  spends  his  time  the  followin'  week 

In  cheatin'  and  overreachin'." 

I  guess  that  dose  was  bitter 

For  a  man  like  Jones  to  swaller; 
But  I  noticed  he  didn't  open  his  mouth. 

Not  once,  after  that,  to  holler. 
Hurrah,  says  I,  for  the  minister — 

Of  course  I  said  it  quiet — 
Give  us  some  more  of  this  open  talk ; 

It's  very  refresh  in'  diet. 

The  minister  hit  'em  every  time, 

And  when  he  spoke  of  fashion. 
And  a-riggin'  out  in  bows  and  things, 

As  woman's  rulin'  passion, 
And  a-comin'  to  church  to  see  the  styles, 

i  couldn't  help  a-winkin' 
And  a  nudgin'  my  wife,  and,  says  I,  "  Th»t?9 
■^ou  " 

And  I  guess  it  sot  her  thinkin'. 


544 


THE  MODEL  CHURCH. 


Says  I  to  myself,  that  sermon's  pat ; 

But  man  is  a  queer  creation ; 
And  I'm  much  afraid  that  most  o'  the  folks 

Wouldn't  take  the  application. 
Now,  if  he  had  said  a  word  about 

My  personal  mode  o'  sinnin', 
I'd  have  gone  to  work  to  right  myself, 

And  not  set  there  a-grinnin'. 

Just  then  the  minister  says,  says  he, 
"  And  now  I've  come  to  the  fellers 

Who've    lost    this    shower    by    usin'    their 
friends 
As  a  sort  o'  moral  umbrellers. 


Go  home,"  says  he,  "  and  find  your  faults. 

Instead  of  huatin  your  brothers'. 
Go  home,"  he  says,  "  and  wear  the  coats 

You've  tried  to  fit  on  others." 


My  wife  she  nudged,  and  Brown  he  winked 

And  there  was  lots  o'  smilin', 
And  lots  o'  lookin'  at  our  pew ; 

It  sot  my  blood  a-bilin'. 
Says  I  to  myself,  our  minister 

Is  gettin'  a  little  bitter; 
I'll  tell  him  when  meetin's  out,  that  I 

Ain't  at  all  that  kind  of  a  critter. 


THE  MODEL  CHURCH. 


JOHN   H.  YATES. 


ELL  wife,  I've  found  the  rrjocZeZ  church 
— I  worshipped  there  to-day  ! 
>  It  made  me  think  of  good  old  times 
before  ray  hair  was  gray. 
The  meetin'  house  was  fixed  up  more 

than  they  were  years  ago, 
But  then  I  felt  when  I  went  in  it 
wasn't  built  for  show. 


The  sexton  didn't  sf^at  me  away  back  by  the 

door; 
lie  knew  that  I  was  old  and  deaf,  as  well  as 

old  and  poor : 
He  must  have  boon  a  Christian,  for  he  led  me 

through 
The  long  aisle  of  that  crowded  church,  to  find 

a  jilace  and  pew. 

I  wi4i  you'd  heard  that  singin' — it  had  the 
old-time  ring; 

Tlie  preacher  said,  with  trumpet  voice,  "  Let 
all  the  pooyde  cing'" 

The  tuno  was  Coronation,  and  tlic  music  up- 
ward rolled, 

Till  I  thought  I  hoard  the  angoiB  striking  all 
thoir  harps  of  gold. 

My  deafnos.'*  seemed  to  melt  away  ,  i  \y  spirit 
cauglil  tin;  liii.; 


I  joined  my  feeble,  trembling  voice  with  that 
melodious  choir, 

And  sang  as  in  my  youthful  da3's,  "  Let  an- 
gels prostrate  fall. 

Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem,  and  crown  Him 
Lord  of  all." 

I  tell  you,  wife,  it  did  me  good  to  sing  that 

hymn  once  more ; 
I  felt  like  some  wrecked  mariner  who  gets  a 

glimpse  of  shore ; 
1  almost  wanted  to  lay  down  this  wratlier 

beaten  form, 
And  anchor  in  the  blessed  port  forever  from 

the  storm. 

The  prcarJiin  f  Will,  1  can't  just  tell  ail  th« 

preacher  said ; 
I  know  it  wasn't  written  ;  I  know  it  wasn't 

read ; 
He  hadn't  time  to  road  it,  for  tlio  lightnin'  of 

his  eye 
Went  flashin'  along  from  ]>rw  'o  pow,  nor  ]>a«- 

Hod  ii  ainnor  liy. 

The  sermon  wasn't  llowiry,  'twius  simple  goe- 

pel  trulb  ; 
It  fittod  f.oor  ujil  men  like  me,  it  fitl<-*<l     opo 

ful  yuutii. 


THE  REST  OF  THE  JUST. 


645 


"Twas  full  of  coMolation  for  weary  hoarts 

"  Where  congregations  ne'er  break  up,  and 

that  bleed  ; 

Sabbaths  have  no  end." 

'Twas  full  of  invitations  to  Christ,  and  not  to 

creed. 

I  hope  to  meet  that  minister — that  congrega- 

tion too — 

The  preacher  made  .«in  hideous  in  Gentiles 

In  that  dear  home  beyond  the  stars  that  shine 

and  in  Jews ; 

from  heaven's  blue. 

He  shot  the  golden  sentences  down  in  the 

I  doubt  not  I'll  remember,  beyond  life  s  even- 

finest pews, 

ing  gray. 

And — ^though  I  can't  see  very  well — I  saw 

That  happy  hour  of  worship  in  that  model 

the  falling  tear 

church  to-day. 

That  told  nie  hell  was  someways  off,  and  heav- 

en very  near. 

Dear  wife,  the  fight  will  soon  be  fought,  the 

victory  be  won  ; 

How  swift  the  golden  moments  fled  within 

The  shining  goal  is  just  ahead:    the  race  is 

that  holy  place ! 

nearly  run.- 

How  brightly  beamed  the  light  of  heaven 

O'er  the  river  we  arc  nearin',  they  are  throng- 

from  every  happy  face ! 

in'  to  the  shore 

Again   I  longed  for  that  sweet   time  when 

To  shout  our  safe  arrival  where  the  weary 

friend  shall  meet  with  friend, 

weep  no  more. 

THE  REST  OF  THE  JUST. 


RICHARD   BAXTER. 


f^EST !  how  sweet  the  sound  !  It  is  melody  to  mv  ears  !  It  lies  as  a 
iP.  reviving  cordial  at  my  heart,  and  from  thence  sends  forth  lively 
spirits  which  beat  through  all  the  pulses  of  my  soul !  E,est,  not  as 
the  stone  that  rests  on  the  earth,  nor  as  this  flesh  shall  rest  in  the 
grave,  nor  such  a  rest  as  the  carnal  world  desires.  0  blessed  rest ! 
when  we  rest  not  day  and  night  saying,  "  Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord 
God  Almighty  :  "  when  we  shall  rest  from  sin,  but  not  from  worship ;  from 
suffering  and  sorrow,  but  not  from  joy  !  0  blessed  day  !  when  I  shall  rest 
with  God !  when  I  shall  rest  in  the  bosom  of  my  Lord  !  when  my  perfect 
soul  and  body  shall  together  perfectly  enjoy  the  most  perfect  God  !  when 
God,  who  is  love  itself,  shall  perfectly  love  me,  and  rest  in  this  love  to  me, 
as  I  shall  rest  in  my  love  to  Him  ;  and  rejoice  over  me  with  joy,  and  joy 
over  me  with  singing,  as  I  shall  rejoice  in  Him ! 

This  is  that  joy  which  was  procured  by  sorrow,  that  crown  which  was 
procured  by  the  Cross,  My  Lord  wept  that  now  my  tears  might  be  wiped 
away ;  He  bled  that  I  might  now  rejoice ;  he  was  forsaken  that  I  might 
not  now  be  forsook ;  He  then  died  that  I  might  now  live,  0  free  mercy, 
that  can  exalt  so  vile  a  wretch  !  Free  to  me,  though  dear  to  Christ :  free 
grace  that  hath  chosen  me,  when  thousands  were  forsaken.  This  is  not 
37 


546  A  PATRIOT'S  LAST  APPEAL. 

like  our  cottages  of  clay,  our  prisons,  our  earthly  dwellings.  This  voice 
of  joy  is  not  like  our  old  complaints,  our  impatient  groans  and  sighs ;  nor 
this  melodious  praise  like  the  scoffs  and  revilings,  or  the  oaths  and  curses, 
which  we  heard  on  earth.  This  body  is  not  like  that  we  had,  nor  this  soul 
like  the  soul  we  had,  nor  this  life  like  the  life  we  lived.  We  have  changed 
our  place  and  state,  our  clothes  and  thoughts,  our  looks,  language,  and 
company.  Before,  a  saint  was  weak  and  despised ;  but  now,  how  happy 
and  glorious  a  thing  is  a  saint !  Where  is  now  their  body  of  sin,  which 
wearied  themselves  and  those  about  them  ?  Where  are  now  our  different 
judgments,  reproachful  names,  divided  spirits,  exasperated  passions,  strange 
looks,  uncharitable  censures  ?  Now  are  all  of  one  judgment,  of  one  name, 
of  one  heart,  house  and  glory.     0  sweet  reconciliation  !  happy  union  ! 


A  PATRIOTS  LAST  APPEAL. 


ROBERT   EMMET. 


^^T  no  man  dare,  when  I  am  dead,  to  charge  me  with  dishonor.     I 
'^     would  not  have  submitted  to  a  foreign  oppressor,  for  the  same  rea- 


""^r        son  that  I  would  resist  the  present  domestic  oppressor.     In  the 

J  dignity  of  freedom,  I  would  have  fought  on  the  threshold  of  my 
country,  and  its  enemy  should  only  enter  by  passing  over  my  life- 
less corpse.  And  am  I,  who  lived  but  for  my  country,  and  who  have  sub- 
jected myself  to  the  dangers  of  a  jealous  and  watchful  oppressor,  and  the 
bondage  of  the  grave,  only  to  give  my  countrymen  their  rights,  and  my 
country  its  independence — am  I  to  be  loaded  with  calumny,  and  not 
suffered  to  resent  or  repel  it  ?     No,  God  forbid  ! 

If  the  spirits  of  the  illustrious  dead  participate  in  the  concern  and 
cares  of  those  who  are  dear  to  them  in  this  transitory  life,  0  ever-dear  and 
venerable  shade  of  my  departed  father,  look  down  with  scrutiny  upon  the 
conduct  of  your  suffering  son,  and  see  if  I  have  ever  for  a  momiMit  deviated 
from  those  principles  of  morality  and  patriotism  which  it  was  your  care  to 
instil  into  my  youthful  mind,  and  for  which  I  am  now  to  offer  up  my  life. 

My  lords,  you  are  impatient  for  the  sacrifice — the  blood  which  you 
Beek  is  not  congealed  by  th<;  artificial  terrors  that  surround  your  victim  ; 
it  circulates  warmly  and  unruffled  through  the  ehaiiucls  wliicli  <i<)d  created 
for  nobler  purposes,  but  whicli  you  are  bent  to  destroy  for  purj)Oses  bo 
grievous  that  tliey  cry  to  Heaven.  Be  yo  patient !  I  have  but  a  lew 
words  more  to  say.     I  am  going  to  my  cold  and  silent  grave;  my  lamp  of 


I 


THE  LAW  OF  DEATH. 


547 


life  is  nearly  extinguished ;  my  race  is  run,  the  grave  opens  to  receive 
me,  and  I  sink  into  its  bosom!  I  have  but  one  request  to  ask  at  my 
departure  from  this  world;  it  is  the  charity  of  its  silence!  Let  no  man 
write  my  epitaph;  for  as  no  man  who  knows  my  motives  dare  now 
vindicate  them,  let  not  prejudice  or  ignorance  asperse  them.  Let  them  and 
me  repose  in  obscurity  and  peace,  and  my  tomb  remain  uninscribed,  until 
other  times  and  other  men  can  do  justice  to  my  character.  When  my 
country  takes  her  place  among  the  nations  of  the  earth — then,  and  not  till 
then,  let  my  epitaph  be  written.     I  have  done. 


THE  LA  W  OF  DEATH. 


JOHN   HAY. 


^Ki^HE  song  of  Kilvany.     Fairest  she 
In  all  the  land  of  Savathi. 
.■!^he  had  one  child,  as  sweet  and  gay 
And  dear  to  her  as  the  light  of  day. 
She  was  so  young,  and  he  so  fair, 
The  same  bright  eyes  and  the  same 

dark  hair. 
To  see  them  by  the  blossomy  way 
They   seemed  two  children   at  their 
play. 

There  came  a  death-dart  from  the  sky, 
Kilvany  saw  her  darling  die. 
The  glimmering  shades  his  eye  invades, 
Out  of  his  cheeks  the  red  bloom  fades ; 
His  warm  heart  feels  the  icy  chill. 
The  round  limbs  shudder  and  are  still. 
And  yet  Kilvany  held  him  fast 
Long  after  life's  last  pulse  was  past. 
As  if  her  kisses  could  restore 
The  smile  gone  out  forevermore. 

But  when  she  saw  her  child  was  dead 
^he  scattered  ashes  on  her  head, 
A.nd  seized  the  small  corpse.  Dale  and  sweet, 
And  rushing  wildly  through  the  street, 
She  sobbing  fell  at  Buddha's  feet. 

"  Master  !  all-helpful !  help  me  now  ! 
Here  at  thy  feet  I  humbly  bow  : 
Have  mercy,  Buddha !  help  me  now !" 
She  groveled  on  the  marble  floor, 


And  kissed  the  dead  child  o'er  and  o'er ; 
And  suddenly  upon  the  air 
There  fell  the  answer  to  her  prayer : 
"  Bring  me  to-night  a  Lotus,  tied 
With  thread  from  a  house  where  none  has 
died." 

She  rose  and  laughed  with  thankful  joy. 
Sure  that  the  God  would  save  her  bo}'. 
She  found  a  Lotus  by  the  stream ; 


She  plucked  it  from  its  noonday  dream, 
And  then  from  door  to  door  she  fared. 
To  ask  what  house  by  death  was  spared. 
Her  heart  grew  cold  to  see  the  eyes 
Of  all  dilate  with  slow  surprise : 


548 


WIDOW  BEDOTT  TO  ELDER  SNIFFLES. 


"  Kilvany,  thou  hast  lost  thy  head  ; 
Nothing  can  help  a  child  that's  dead. 
There  stands  not  by  the  Ganges'  side 
A  house  where  none  hath  ever  died." 
Thus  through  the  long  and  weary  day, 
From  every  door  she  bore  away, 
Within  her  heart,  and  on  her  arm, 
A  heavy  load,  a  deeper  harm. 
By  gates  of  gold  and  ivory. 
By  wattled  huts  of  poverty, 
The  same  refrain  heard  poor  Kilvany, 


The  living  are  few — the  dfad  are  inany. 
The  evening  came,  so  still  and  fleet. 
And  overtook  her  hurrj-ing  feet. 
And,  heart-sick,  by  the  sacred  fane 
She  fell,  and  prayed  the  God  again. 

She  sobbed  and  beat  her  bursting  breast: 
"  Ah  !  thou  hast  mocked  me  !  Mightiest ! 
Lo!  I  have  wandered  far  and  wide — 
There   stands   no   house   where    none    hath 
died." 


A  SO^^G  FOE  HEARTH  AND  HOME. 


WILLIAM    E.    DURYEA. 


Mi^^ARK  is  the  night,  and  fitful  and  drear- 

Rushes  the  wind  like  the  waves  of 
the  sea ; 
Little  care  I,  as  here  I  sit  cheerily, 
W^ife  at  my  side  and  my  baby  on  knee. 

King,  king,  crown  me  the  king : 
Home  is  the  kingdom,  and  Love  is 
the  king  ! 

Flashes  the  firelight  upon  the  dear  faces. 
Dearer  and  dearer  and  onward  we  go. 
Forces  the  shadow  behind  us,  and  places 
Brightness  around  us  with  warmth  in  the 
glow. 
King,  king,  crown  me  the  king: 
Home  is  the  kingdom,  and  Love  is  the 
king! 


Flashes  the  lovelight,  increasing  the  glory, 
Beaming  from  bright  e3'es  with  warmth  of 
the  soul. 
Telling  of  trust  and  content  the  sweet  storj^ 
Lifting  the  shadows  that  over  us  roll. 
King,  king,  crown  me  the  king: 
Home  is  the  kingdom  and  Love  is  the 
king! 

Richer  than  miser  with  perishing  treasure, 
Served  with  a  service  no  conquest  could 
bring ; 
Happy  with  fortune  that  wor<ls  cannot  meas- 
ure. 
Light  hearted  I  on  the  hearthstone  can  sing. 
King,  king,  crown  me  the  king: 
Home  is  the  kingdom,  and  Love  is  tha 
king. 


WIDOW  BEDOTT  TO  ELDER  SNIFFLES. 


REVEREND  nir,  I  do  dc-chire 
It  drives  mc  most  to  frenzy, 
^   To  think  of  you  a  lying  there 
Down  Hi<:k  with  intluenzy. 

A  body'd  thouglit  il  wxs  enough 
To  mourn  your  wife's  (le[itirter, 

Without  wich  trouble  as  this  ero 
To  come  a  foUerin'  arter. 


But  HickncHs  and  affliction 
Are  sent  by  a  wise  creation, 

And  always  ouglit  to  be  underwent 
By  [)atience  and  resignation. 

0  I  <(iuld  lo  ydur  bedside  fly, 
And  wipe  your  woojiing  eyes, 

And  do  my  best  to  cheer  you  up, 
if't  wouldn't  create  surprise. 


1 


THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET. 


549 


It's  a  world  of  trouble  we  tarrj'  in, 
But,  Elder,  don't  despair  ; 

That  you  may  soon  be  movin"  again 
Is  constantly  my  prayer. 


Both  sick  and  well,  you  may  depend 

You'll  never  be  forgot 
By  your  faithful  and  affectionate  friend, 

Pkiscilla  Pool  Bedott. 


THE  LA  UGH  OF  A  CHILD. 


^n. 


LOVE  it,  I  love  it,  the  laugh  of  a  child, 
EJp   Now  rippling  and  gentle,  now  merry 
f^f         and  wild ; 
^^t^    Ringing  out  on  the  air  with  its  inno- 


Floating  off  on  the  breeze,  like  the  tones  of  a 

bell, 
Or  the  music  that  dwells  on  the  heart  of  a 

i<hell ; 


cent  gush,  [hush;  |  Oh  !  the  laugh  of  a  child,  so  wild  and  so  free 

Like  the  trill  of  a  bird  at  the  twilight's  soft  '  Is  the  merriest  sound  in  the  world  for  me. 


THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET. 


SAMUEL   WOODWORTH. 


'<  >\V  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  i  The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cat 

of  my  childhood,  |  aract  fell ; 

When    fond    recollection    presents  i  The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh 

them  to  view !  -  it. 

The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-  |  And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in 

tangled  wild-wood,  |  the  well. 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  in-  |  The     old    oaken    bucket,     the    iron-bound 

fancy  knew ; —  [  bucket. 

The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  tlie  mill  which  The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the 

stood  by  it,  |  well. 


550 


DRESS  REFORM. 


That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hail  as  a  trea- 
sure; 
For  often,  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the 
field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 
The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can 
yield, 
flow  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were 
glowing ! 
And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it 
fell; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  over- 
flowing, 
And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from 
the  well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the  well. 


How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  re 
ceive  it, 
As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my 
lips  I 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  t« 
leave  it. 
Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter 
sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situa- 
tion. 
The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 
And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  m 
the  well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hangs  in  the 
well. 


DRESS  REFORM. 


T.    DE    WITT    TALMAGE. 


CONVEXTION  has  recently  been  held  in  Vineland,  attended  by 
the  women  who  are  ojiposed  to  extravagance  in  dress.  They 
propose,  not  only  by  formal  resolution,  but  by  personal  example, 
to  teach  the  world  lessons  of  economy  by  wearing  lo^ss  adornment 
and  dragging  fewer  yards  of  silk.  We  wish  them  all  success, 
1  although  we  would  have  more  confidence  in  the  movement  if  so 

many  of  the  delegates  had  not  worn  bloomer  dresses.  Moses  makes  war 
upon  that  style  of  apparel  in  Deuteronomy  xxii.  5  :  "  The  woman  shall  not 
wear  that  which  pertaineth  unto  man."  Nevertheless  we  favor  every 
effort  to  stop  the  extravagant  use  of  dry  goods  and  millinery. 

We  have,  however,  no  sympathy  with  the  implication  that  women  aro 
worse  than  men  in  this  respect.  Men  wear  all  they  can  without  interfer- 
ing with  their  locomotion,  but  man  is  su«;h  an  awkward  creature  he  cannot 
find  any  place  on  his  body  to  hang  a  great  inanv  fineries.  lie  could  nof 
get  round  in  Wall  Street  with  eight  or  Ifii  flounces  and  a  big  handicci 
parasol,  and  a  mountain  of  back  hair.  Men  wear  less  than  women,  not 
because  they  are  more  moral,  but  because;  they  cannot  stand  it.  As  it  is, 
many  of  our  young  jnon  arc  padded  to  a  superlative  degree,  and  have 
corns  and  bunions  on  every  sej)aratG  t^e  from  wearing  tight  shoes. 

Neither  have  we  any  sympalliy  with  tl)<;  iuiplieatiuii    that  tin-  jireseiit 


1 


LORD  ULLINS  DAUGHTER. 


551 


is  worse  than  the  past  in  matters  of  dress.  Compare  the  fiashion-plates  of 
the  seventeenth  century  with  the  fashion-plates  of  the  nineteenth,  and  you 
decide  in  favor  of  our  day.  The  women  of  Isaiah's  time  beat  anything 
now.  Do  we  have  the  kangaroo  lashion  Isaiah  speaks  of — the  daughters 
who  walked  forth  with  "  stretched  forth  necks"  ?  Talk  of  hoops  !  Isaiah 
speaks  of  women  with  "  round  tires  like  the  moon."  Do  we  have  hot 
ii-ons  for  curling  our  hair  ?  Isaiah  speaks  of  "  wimples  and  crisping  pins." 
Do  we  sometimes  wear  glasses  astride  our  nose,  not  because  we  are  near- 
sighted, but  for  l»eautification  ?  Isaiah  speaks  of  the  "  glasses,  and  the 
earrings,  and  the  nose  jewels."  The  dress  of  to-day  is  far  more  sensible 
than  that  of  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  years  ago. 

But  the  largest  room  in  the  world  is  room  for  improvement,  and  we 
would  cheer  on  those  who  would  attempt  reformation  cither  in  male  or 
female  attire.  Meanwhile,  we  rejoice  that  so  many  of  the  pearls,  and 
emeralds,  and  amethysts,  and  diamonds  of  the  world  are  coming  into  the 
possession  of  Christian  women.  Who  knows  but  the  spirit  of  consecra- 
tion may  some  day  come  upon  them,  and  it  shall  be  again  as  it  was  in  the 
time  of  Moses,  that  for  the  prosperity  of  tiie  house  of  the  Lord  the  women 
may  bring  their  bracelets,  and  earrings,  and  tablets,  and  jewels  ?  The 
precious  stones  of  earth  will  never  have  their  proper  place  till  they  are  set 
around  the  Pearl  of  Great  Price. 


LORD  ULLIN'S  DA  UGHTER. 


-i- 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


H-t 


[  CHIEFTAIN  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry  ! 
And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 


"  Now  who  be  ye,  would  cros.s  Loch- 

gyie- 

This  dark  and  stormy  water  ?" 
'  0,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 
And  this  Lord  Ullin'.s  daughter. 

"  And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  daj's  we've  fled  together; 

For  should  lie  find  us  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"  His  horsemen  nard  behind  us  ride ; 
Should  they  our  steps  discover, 


Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonnj'-  bride 
When  they  have  slain  her  lover?  '— 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight 
"  I'll  go,  my  chief — I'm  read}-. 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 
But  for  your  winsome  lad}'." 

"  And  by  my  word  !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry  ; 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  whitSi 

I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace ; 

The  water-wraith  was  shrieking; 
And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 

Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 


552 


LORD  ULLINS  DAUGHTER. 


But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

A-down  the  glen  rode  armed  men — 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 


The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her — 
When,  oh  I  too  strong  for  human  hand, 

The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her. 


*0,  h:iHU)   tli.<-,  lni.-,L<:  1"  111'    l.idy  <  iiu.s  ; 

"  Thougli  l<'inpeHt8  round  m  gather ; 
I'll  meet  the  raging  of  tlifHkioH, 

But  not  an  angry  father." 


And  Htdl  tiicy  rowod  uiiud.>5l  llio  roar 
Of  wat'TH  flint  pri'vaiiing  ;   - 

Lord  Ullin  n-acliod  that  fatal  sliuro ; 
IIJH  wriitli  was  iliaiiL^dd  tu  wailing. 


ANNABEL  LEE. 


553 


For  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and  shade  '  "  And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 
iJ  L.  ,].,]  .]  My  daughter  1 — Oh,  my  daughter  1' 


His  child  he  did  discover  ; 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 
And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

■  Come  back  !  come  back  !"  he  cried  in  grief, 
Across  this  stormy  water ; 


'Twas  vain  : — the  loud  waves  lashed  the  shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing  ; 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 


PER  PACEM  AD  LUCEM. 


ADELAIDE   ANNE    PROCTOR. 


DO  not  ask,  0  Lord!  that  life  may  be     ,  I  do  not  ask,  0   Lord,  that  Thou  shouldst 

A  pleasant  road ;  |  shed 

I  do  not  ask  that  Thou  weuldst  take  i  Full  radiance  here  ; 

Give  but  a  ray  of  peace,  that  I  may  tread 
Without  a  fear. 


from  me 
Aught  of  its  load  ; 
-'     1  do  not  ask  that  flowers  should  always 
spring 
Beneath  my  feet ; 
I  know  too  well  the  poison  and  the  sting 

Of  things  too  sweet. 
For  one  thing  only.  Lord,  dear  Lord !  I  plead  : 
Lead  me  aright — 


I  do  not  ask  my  cross  to  understand. 

My  way  to  see, — 
Better  in  darkness  just  to  feel  Thy  hand, 

And  follow  Thee. 
Joy  is  like  restless  day,  but  peace  divine 

Like  quiet  night. 


Though  strength  should  falter,  and   though      Lead   me,    0   Lord,   till    perfect    day   shall 
heart  should  bleed—  i  shine, 

Through  Peace  to  Light.  '  Through  Peace  to  Light. 


ANNABEL  LEE. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE. 


i^T  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 
IP       In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
M  That  a  maiden  lived,  whom  you  may 
know, 
By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other 

thouglit 
Than  to  love,  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child,  and  she  was  a  child. 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea  ; 


But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than 
love, 
I  ?,nd  my  Annabel  Lee, — 
With  a  love   that   the  winged    seraphs  oi 
heaven 
Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 


654 


THE  FIRE-BELLS  STORY. 


So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came, 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre. 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me. 
Yes  !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know) 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  the  wind  came   out  of  the   cloud   by 
night, 

ChiUing  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the 
love 
Of  those  who  were  older  than  we. 
Of  many  far  wiser  than  we ; 


And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 
Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea. 

Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing 
me  dreams 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee, 
And  the  stars  never  rise  but  I  feel  the  bright 
eyes 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide  I  lie  down  by  the 

side 
Of  my  darling,  my  darling,  my  life,  and  my 
bride, 
In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 
In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


THE  FIRE-BELL'S  STORY. 


GEORGE  L.  CATLIN. 


^S^^ONG — Dong — the  bells  rang  out 
l^H     Over  the  housetops;  and  thon  a  shout 
Of  "  Fire  I "   came  echoing  up   the 

street, 
With  the  sound  of  eager,  hurrying 

feet. 
Dong — Dong — the  sonorous  peal 
Came  mingled  with  clatter  of  engine  wheel 
And  whistle  shrill,  and  horse's  hoof; 
And  lo!  from  the  summit  of  yonder  roof 
A  riame  bursts  forth,  with  a  sudden  glare. 
Dong — Dong — on  the  mi<lniglit  air 
The  sound  goes  ringing  out  over  the  town  ; 
And  hundreds  already  aro  hurrying  down, 
Through  the  narrow  street*,  with  bn-athless 

speed 
Following  whither  thi-  engines  lead. 
Dong — Dong — and  from  window.**  high 
Startled  ones  pe<'r  at  the  ruddy  sky. 
And  still  the  warning  loud  doth  swell 
From  the  brazen  throat  of  the  irontongued 

bfll. 
Sending  a  shudder,  and  sending  a  start 
To  many  a  home,  and  many  a  heart. 
Up  in  yon  t<-nenient,  where  the  glap' 


Shines  dimly  forth  on  the  starlit  air 
Through  ding}-  windows ;  where  flame  and 

smoke 
Already  begin  to  singe  and  choki-, 
See  the  affrighted  ones  look  out 
In  helpless  terror,  in  horrible  doubt. 
Begging  for  succor.     Now  behold 
The  ladders,  by  arms  so  strong  and  bold. 
Are  reared ;  like  squirrels  the  bravo  men  climb 
To  the  topmost  story.    Indeed,  'twere  time — 
'■  They  all  are  saved  I"  .said  a  voice  below, 
Ami  a  shout  of  triumph  went  up.     But  no — 
"  Not  all — ah,  no'"--'twas  a  mother's  shriek; 
The  cry  of  a  woman,  agonized,  weak, 
Yet  nerve<l    to  strength  by  her  dee]i  woe's 

j»ower, 
"  Great  O 0(1,  my  child!" — even  strong  men 

cower 
'Neath  smli  a  iry.     "  Oh,  save  inij  child/" 
She  scrfamcd  in  accents  surrowful,  wild. 

T^]i  the  lailders,  a  <l(i/,.n  iikmi 
Rushed  in  generous  rivalry  then, 
Bravely  facing  a  terrible  fjitc 
Breathless  the  crowd  below  await. 


MOTHER'S  VACANT  CHAIR. 


655 


See !  There's  one  who  has  gained  the  sill 
Of  yonder  window.     Now,  with  a  will, 
He  bursts  the  sash  with  his  sturdy  blow  , 
And  it  rattles  down  on  the  pave  below. 
Now,  he  has  disappeared  from  sight — 
Faces  below  are  ashen  and  white, 
In  that  terrible  moment.     Then  a  cry 
Of  joy  goes  up  to  the  flame-lit  sky — 
Goes  up  to  welcome  him  back  to  life. 
God  help  him  now  in  his  terrible  strife ! 
Once  more  he  mounts  the  giddy  sill, 
Cool  and  steady  and  fearless  still ; 
Once  more  he  grasps  the  ladder — see ! 


What  is  it  he  holds  so  tenderly  ? 
Thousands  of  tearful,  upturned  eyes 
Are  watching  him  now  ;  and  with  eager  cries 
And  sobs  and  cheerings,  the  air  is  rent 
As  he  slowly  retraces  the  long  descent. 
And  the  child  is  saved! 

Ah  !  ye  who  mourn 
For  chivalry  dead,  in  the  days  long  gone, 
And  prate  of  the  valor  of  olden  time. 
Remember  this  deed  of  lovo  sublime, 
And  know  that  knightly  deeds,  and  bold, 
Are  as  plentiful  now  as  in  days  of  old. 


MOTHERS  VACANT  CHAIR. 


T.    DE    WITT    TALMAGE. 


pii  GO  a  little  farther  on  in  your  house,  and  I  find  the  mother's  chair.  It 
1^  is  very  apt  to  be  a  rocldng-chair.  She  had  so  many  cares  and 
JL  troubles  to  soothe,  that  it  must  have  rockers.  I  remember  it  well. 
I  It  was  an  old  chair,  and  the  rockers  were  almost  worn  out,  for  I  was 
i  the  youngest,  and  the  chair  had  rocked  the  whole  family.  It  made 
^  a  creaking  noise  as  it  moved,  but  there  was  music  in  the  sound.  It 
was  just  high  enough  to  allow  us  children  to  put  our  heads  into  her  lap. 
That  was  the  bank  where  we  deposited  all  our  hurts  and  worries.  Oh, 
what  a  chair  that  was.  It  was  different  from  the  father's  chair — it  was 
entirely  different.  You  ask  me  how  ?  I  cannot  tell,  but  we  all  felt  it  was 
different.  Perhaps  there  was  about  this  chair  more  gentleness,  more  ten- 
derness, more  grief  when  we  had  done  wrong.  When  we  were  wayward, 
father  scolded,  but  mother  cried.  It  was  a  ver}'  wakeful  chair.  In  the 
sick  days  of  children  other  chairs  could  not  keep  awake ;  that  chair  always 
kept  awake — kept  easily  awake.  That  chair  knew  all  the  old  lullabies, 
and  all  those  wordless  songs  which  mothers  sing  to  their  sick  children — 
songs  in  which  all  pity  and  compassion  and  sympathetic  influences  are 
combined.  That  old  chair  has  stopped  rocking  for  a  good  many  years.  It 
may  be  set  up  in  the  loft  or  the  garret,  but  it  holds  a  queenly  power  yet. 
When  at  midnight  you  went  into  that  grog-shop  to  get  the  intoxicating 
draught,  did  you  not  hear  a  voice  that  said,  "  My  son,  why  go  in  there  ?  " 
and  a  louder  than  the  boisterous  encore  of  the  theatre,  a  voice  saying, 
"  My  son,  what  do  you  here  ?  "     And  when  you  went  into  the  house  of 


556  THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 


sin,  a  voice  saying,  "  What  would  your  mother  do  if  she  knew  you  were 
here  ?  "  and  you  were  provoked  at  yourself,  and  you  charged  yourself  with 
superstition  and  fanaticism,  and  your  head  got  hot  with  your  own  thoughts, 
and  you  went  home  and  you  went  to  bed,  and  no  sooner  had  you  touched 
the  bed  than  a  voice  said,  " What  a  prayerless  pillow  !  "  Man!  what  is 
the  matter  ?  This  !  You  are  too  near  your  mother's  rocking  chair.  "  Oh, 
pshaw  !  "  you  say,  "  there's  nothing  in  that.  I'm  live  hundred  miles  off 
from  where  I  was  born — I'm  three  thousand  miles  off  from  the  Scotch  kirk 
whose  bell  was  the  first  music  I  ever  heard."  I  cannot  help  that.  You 
are  too  near  your  mother's  rocking-chair.  "Oh  !  "  you  say,  "  there  can't 
be  anything  in  that;  that  chair  has  been  vacant  a  great  while."  I  cannot 
help  that.  It  is  all  the  mightier  for  that;  it  is  omnipotent,  that  vacant 
mother's  chair.  It  whispers.  It  speaks.  It  weeps.  It  carols.  It 
mourns.  It  prays.  It  warns.  It  thunders.  A  young  man  went  off  and 
broke  his  mother's  heart,  and  while  he  was  away  from  home  his  mother 
died,  and  the  telegraph  brought  the  son,  and  he  came  into  the  room  where 
she  lay,  and  looked  upon  her  lace,  and  cried  out,  "  0  mother,  mother,  what 
your  life  could  not  do  your  death  shall  effect.  This  moment  I  give  my 
heart  to  God."  And  he  kept  his  promise.  Another  victory  for  the 
vacant  chair.  With  reference  to  your  mother,  the  words  of  my  text  were 
fulfilled  :  "  Thou  shalt  be  missed  because  thy  seat  will  be  empty." 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 


'iM 


T.  BUCHANAN  READ. 


THIN  thiH  sober  realm   of  leafless  •  As  in  a  dreani  the  ilistant  woodman  hewed 
J  trees,  His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled  blow. 


air ; 


Thf  -asset  year  inhaled  the  dreamy 

The  embattled  forest.*!,  erewhile  armed  in  gold. 

Like  some  tanned  reaper,  in  his  hour         Tlx^'r  bannens  bright  with  every  martial 
of  ease,  '""'• 

When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare.      N.-w  str)od,  like  some  sad,  br^ateii  bust  of  <>ld, 

Wiilidrawii  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 
The  gray  barns  looking  from  their  hazy  hills 

O'er  the  dim  waters  widening  in  the  vales,      ^^^  Hlumberous  wings  the  vulture  tri.d  his 


Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills, 


flight, 


On  the  dull  thun.ler  of  alternate  flail-  .,.,,^  j^^^  ^^,^^^^  ,,^^^^,1  ,,i„  ^,^hing  mato'e 

All   sights  wore    mellowed     and   all  sounds  romplaint, 

subdued.  And,  likr;  a  star  slow  drnwinng  in  the  liglii, 

The  hills  seemed  further  and  the  streams  The  village  (.hurch-vane  seemed  td  pale  and 

sang  low,                                                  I  faint. 


THE  (.'LOSING  SCENE. 


557 


The  sontinel  cock  upon  thfi  hillside  crew, — 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  be- 
fore ; 
Silent  till  some  replying  wanderer  blew 
His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no 
more. 

Where  erst  the  jay ;  within  the  elm's  tall  crest; 
Made  garrulous  trouble  round  the  unfledged 
young; 


Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  rnind  believes, 
An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous  year  : 

Where  every  bird  which  iharmed  the  vernal 
feast 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at 
morn, 
To  warn  the  reapers  of  the  rosy  east — 
All  now    was  songless,   empty,  and  for- 
lorn. 


And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest  I  Alone,    from    out     the    stubble    piped    tht 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung  ;  quail, 


Where  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves, 
The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near, 


And   croaked    the    crow    through    all    th« 
dreary  gloom ; 


558 


GRADATIM. 


Alone,  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers  ; 
The  spiders  wuve  their  thin  shrouds  night 
by  night; 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 
Sailed  slowly  by — passed  noiseless  out  of 
pight. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  cheerless  air, 
And  where  the  woodbine  sheds  upon  the 
porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  year  stood  there 
Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch — 

Amid  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene, 

The  white-haired    matron,  with    monoto- 
nous tread, 
Plied  her  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless 
mien 
Sat  like  a  Fate,  and  watched  the  flying 
thread. 

She  had  known  sorrow.     He  had  walked 
with  her, 
Oft  supped,  and  broke  with  her  the  ashea 
crust ; 


And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  thi 
stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer 

bloom. 

Her  country  summoned,  and  she  gave  her 

all; 

And  twice  War  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume — 

Re-gave  the  swords  to  rust  upon  her  wall. 

Re-gave  the  swords — but  not  the  hand  that 
drew, 

And  struck  for  liberty  the  dying  blow , 
Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true. 

Fell,  mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  aot  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on, 
Like  th'3  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon  ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 
Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremu- 
lou.-  tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped — her  head 
was  bowed . 
Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  his  hands 
serene  ; 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  careful 
shroud. 
While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the  autumn 
scene. 


GRADATIM. 


J,  G.  HOLLAND. 


MAVEN  i.s  not  reacho<l  at  a  single  |  We  rise  by  things  that  are  under  our  feel ; 

bound  ;  gy  what  wo  have  mastered  of  good  an<l 

''     But  wo  build  the  hulder  by  which  gain  ; 

we  rise  .       ]jy  t)io  pride  deposed  and  the  pa-ssion  slain, 

From     the    lowly     eartli    to    the  j  And    ihe   vanquisliml    ills   that   we    houily 

vaultf^d  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  the  Bummit  round 

by  round. 


I  nount  tliiM  thing  to  be  grandly  truft  ; 

Tli.'it  a  no})lf!  dfed  is  a  stop  toward  (lod — 
Lifting  the  houI  from  the  common  sod 

\o  a  purer  air  and  a  liroader  view. 


moot. 

Wo  liopo,  wo  as[)iro,  wo  resulvo,  wc  trust,       • 
When   the  viornin</   calls   us   to  life  and 

light; 
But  our  liearls  grow   \v<ary,  and  ore  tl/ 

Our  lives  are  (railing  tlx'  ^"fl"]  ilu** 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON.  559 


We  hope,  we  resolve,  we  aspire,  we  pray,  j  Only  in  dreams  is  a  ladder  thrown 

And  wf!  tliink  that  we  mount  the  air  on  I       From    the    weary  earth   to  the   sapphire 

wings  !               walls ; 

Beyond  the  recall  of  sensual  things,  j       But  the  dreams  depart,  and  the  vision  falls, 

While  our  feet  still  cling  to  the  heavy  clay.  And  the  sleeper  wakes  on  his  pillow  of  stone. 

I 

Wings  for  the  angels,  but  feet  for  the  men  !  ,   Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound ; 

We  may  borrow  the  wings  to  find  the  way  ;  But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 

We  may  hope,  and  resolve,  and  aspire,  and  From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

pray  ;  And   we   mount   to    the   summit   round    by 

But  our  feet  must  rise,  or  we  fall  again.  round. 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON. 


THOMAS   JEFFERSON. 


'.  S  mind  was  great  and  powerful  without  being  of  the  very  first  order : 
his  penetration  strong,  and  so  far  as  he  saw,  no  judgment  was  ever 
sounder.  It  was  slow  in  operation,  but  sure  in  conclusion.  Hence 
the  common  remark  of  his  officers  of  the  advantage  he  derived  from 
councils  of  war,  where,  hearing  all  suggestions,  he  selected  what- 
ever was  best;  and  certainly  no  general  ever  planned  his  battles  more 
judiciously.  But  if  deranged  during  the  course  of  the  action,  if  any 
member  of  his  plan  was  dislocated  by  sudden  circumstances,  he  was  slow 
in  a  re-adj  ustment.  The  consequence  was,  that  he  often  failed  in  the  field, 
and  rarely  against  an  enemy  in  station,  as  at  Boston  and  York.  He  was 
incapable  of  fear,  meeting  personal  dangers  with  the  calmest  unconcern. 

Perhaps  the  strongest  feature  in  his  character  was  prudence,  never 
acting  until  every  circumstance,  every  consideration  was  maturely  weighed ; 
refraining  if  he  siiw  a  doubt,  but  when  once  decided,  going  through  with 
his  purpose,  whatever  obstacles  opposed.  His  integrity  was  most  pure, 
his  justice  the  most  inflexible  I  have  ever  known;  no  motives  of  interest 
or  consanguinity,  of  friendship  or  hatred,  being  able  to  bias  his  decision. 
He  was,  indeed,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  a  wise,  a  good,  and  a  great 
man.  His  temper  was  naturally  irritable  and  high-toned  ;  but  reflection 
and  resolution  had  obtained  a  firm  and  habitual  ascendancy  over  it.  If 
ever,  however,  it  broke  its  bounds,  he  was  most  tremendous  in  his  wrath. 
In  his  expenses  he  was  honorable,  but  exact ;  liberal  in  contributions  to 
whatever  promised  utility ;  but  frowning  and  unyielding  on  all  visionary 
projects,  and  all  unworthy  calls  on  his  charity.  His  heart  was  not  warm 
in  its  affections ;  but  he  exactly  calculated  every  man's  value,  and  gave  him  a 


560  MARY  GARVIN. 


solid  esteem  proportioned  to  it.  His  person,  you  know  was  fine,  his  stature 
exactly  what  one  would  wish ;  his  deportment  easy,  erect,  and  noble,  the 
best  horseman  of  his  age,  and  the  most  graceful  figure  that  could  be  seen 
on  horseback.  Although  in  the  circle  of  his  friends,  where  he  might  be 
unreserved  with  safety,  he  took  a  free  share  in  conversation,  his  colloquial 
talents  were  not  above  mediocrity,  possessing  neither  copiousness  of  ideas, 
nor  fluency  of  words.  In  public,  when  called  ou  for  a  sudden  opinion,  he 
was  unready,  short,  and  embarrassed.  Yet  he  wrote  readily,  rather  dif- 
fusely, in  an  easy  and  correct  style.  This  'he  had  acquired  by  conversa- 
tion with  the  world,  for  his  education  was  merely  reading,  writing,  and 
common  arithmetic,  to  which  he  added  surveying  at  a  later  day. 

His  time  was  employed  in  action  chiefly,  reading  little,  and  that  only 
in  agriculture  and  English  history.  His  correspondence  became  necessarily 
extensive,  and  with  journalizing  his  agricultural  proceedings,  occupied  most 
of  his  leisure  hours  within  doors.  On  the  whole  his  character  was,  in  its 
mass,  perfect,  in  nothing  bad,  in  a  few  points  indifferent ;  and  it  may  truly 
be  said,  that  never  did  nature  and  fortune  combine  more  completely  to 
make  a  man  great,  and  to  place  him  in  the  same  constellation  with  what- 
ever worthies  have  merited  from  man  an  everlasting  remembrance.  For 
his  was  the  singular  destiny  and  merit  of  leading  the  armies  of  his  country 
successfully  through  an  arduous  war,  for  the  establishment  of  its  indepen- 
dence ;  of  conducting  its  councils  through  the  birth  of  a  government,  new 
in  its  forms  and  principles,  until  it  had  settled  down  into  a  quiet  and 
orderly  train. 


MABY   GARVIN. 


J.  G.  WHITTIER. 


e<^f^.* 


EUOM  tlie  heart  of  Waumbek  Methna, 
from  the  lake  tliat  never  fails, 
— •HMo  I'iiUs  the  Saco  in   the  green  lap  of 


Since   traveled    Jocelyn,    factor   Vines,   and 

stately  Champernoon 
IToanl  on  its  banks  the  grey  wolf's  howl,  the 
Conway's  intervales ;  i  tnirnpot  of  the  loon  ! 

I    There,  in  wihl  and  virgin  freshness, 

J        its  waters  foam  and  flow.  '^^'i'''   ^"".king   axln   hoi   with    Hi.eod,   with 

As  when   Darby  Field  first  saw  thf-m-two  "'«^^«  "''  f"""  ^""^  »^«''^'n- 

hundred  yars  ago.  Wide  waked  To  day  leaves  Yesterday  Ix-hind 

him  liko  a  dream. 
But,  vexed    in  all   iLs  seaward  course  with      Still  from  the  hurrying  train  of  Life  fly  back 

bridges,  dams  and  mills,  |  wards,  far  and  fast. 

How  changed  is  Saco's  stream,  how  lost  its      The  milestones  of  the  fathers,  the  land  marks 
freedom  of  the  hills.  '  of  the  past. 


MARY  GARVIN. 


5G1 


But  human  hearts  remain    unchanged ;  the 

sorrow  and  the  sin, 
The  loves  and  hopes  arid  fears  of  old,  are  to 

our  own  akin  ; 
And  if  in  tales  our  fathers  told,  the  songs  our 

mothers  sung, 
Tradition  wears  a  snowy  beard,  Romance  is 

always  young. 

0  sharp-lined  man  of  traflSc,  on  Saco's  banks 
to-day  ! 

0  mill-girl,  watching  late  and  long  the  shut- 
tle's restless  play ! 

Let,  for  the  once,  a  listening  ear  the  working 
hand  beguile, 

And  lend  my  old  Provincial  tale,  as  suits,  a 
tear  or  smile  ! 


The   evening   gun   had   sounded  from  gray 

Fort  Mary's  walls  ; 
Through  the  forest,  like  a  wild  beast,  roared 

and  plunged  the  Saco's  falls; 

And  westward  on   the  sea  wind,  that  damp 

and  gusty  grew, 
Over  cedars  darkening  inland,  the  smokes  of 

Spurwink  blew. 

C'n  the  hearth  of  Farmer  Garvin  blazed  the 

crackling  walnut  log ; 
Eight  and  left  sat  dame  and  good  man,  and 

between  them  lay  the  dog, 


Head-on -paws,  and  tail  slow   wagging,  and 

beside  him  on  her  mat, 
Sitting  drowsy  in  the  fire-light,  winked  and 

purred  the  mottled  cat. 
38 


"  Twenty    years !"    said  Goodman    Garvin. 

speaking  sadly,  under  oreath. 
And  his  gray  head  slowly  shaking,  as  one 

who  speaks  of  death. 

The  goodwife  dropped  her  needles;   "It  Li 

twenty  years  to-day 
Since  the  Indians  fell  on  Saco,  and  stole  our 

child  away." 

Then   they  sank  into  the  silence,  for  each 

knew  the  other's  thought. 
Of  a  great  and  common  sorrow,  and  words 

were  needed  not. 

"  Who  knocks  ?"  cried  Goodman  Garvin.    The 

door  was  open  thrown  ; 
On  two  strangers,  man  and  maiden,  cloaked 

and  furred,  tlie  fire-light  shone  ; 

One  with  courteous  gesture  lifte  1  the  bear- 
skin from  his  head ; 

"  Lives  here  Elkanah  Garvin  ?"  "  I  am  he," 
the  goodman  said. 

"  Sit  ye  down,  and  dry  and  warm  ye,  for  the 

night  is  chill  with  rain." 
And  the  goodwife  drew  the  settle,  and  stirred 

the  fire  amain. 

The  maid  unclasped  her  cloak -hood,  the  fire- 
light glistened  fair 

In  her  large,  moist  eyes,  and  over  soft  folds 
of  dark  brown  hair. 

Dame  Garvin  looked  upon  her :  "  It  is  Mary'i 

self  I  see ! 
Dear  heart!"  she  cried,  "now  tell  me,  ha« 

mj'  child  come  back  to  me  ?" 

'  My  name  indeed  is  Mary,"  said  the  strac 

ger,  sobbing  wild  ; 
"  Will  you  be  to  me  a  mother  ?     I  am  Mary 

Garvin's  child! 

"  She  sleeps  by  wooded  Simcoe,  but  on  her 

dying  day 
She  bade  my  father  take  me  to  her  kinsfolk 

far  away. 

"And  when  the  priest  besought  her  to  d« 
me  no  such  wrong, 


562 


MAhY  GARVIN. 


She   said,   'May  God  forgive    me!    I   have 
closed  my  heart  too  long. 

" '  When  I  hid  me  from  my  father,  and  shut 

out  my  mother's  call, 
I  sinned  against  those  dear  ones,  and  the 

Father  ot  us  all. 

"  '  Christ's  love  rebukes  no  home-love,  breaks 

no  tie  of  kin  apart ; 
Better  heresy   in   doctrine,   than   heresy  of 

heart. 

"  •  Tell  me  not  the  Church  must  censure  ;  she 

who  wept  tne  cross  beside 
Never  made  her  own  fiesh  strangers,  nor  the 

claims  of  blood  denied  ; 


'•  Amen !"    the    old    man    answered,   as   he 

brushed  a  tear  away, 
And,  kneeling  by  the  hearthstone,  said,  with 

reverence,  "  Let  us  pray." 

All  its  Oriental  symbols,   and   its   Hebrew 

paraphrase, 
Warm  with  earnest  life  and  feeling,  rose  his 

praj'er  of  love  and  praise. 

But  he  started  at  beholding,  as  he  rose  from 

oif  his  knee, 
The  stranger  cross  his  forehead  with  the  sign 

of  Papistrie. 


"  What  is  this  ?"  cried  Farmer  Garvin, 
an  English  Christian's  home 


Is 


^;3:?^ss^ '-.^.■^  -^/^-.;:^-=.^-. 


"  '  And  if  .slni  who  wronged  her  parents  with  I 

hor  child  atones  to  them, 
Earthly  daughter.  Heavenly   mother!    thou 

at  lea.'it  wilt  not  condemn  !' 

"So,  njion  h'-r  death-bed   lying,  my  blessed 

mother  8j>ake ; 
/Ls  we  come  to  do  her  bidding,  ho  receive  ua 

for  her  Hake." 

■*  Ood  be   praised  !"  said  Ooudwife  Garvin  ; 

"  Ho  takoth  and  ho  ^ive-i; 
ITe  W'>undetli,  but  he   healeth  ;   in   her  child 

our  dauglitur  livual" 


A  chajiel  or  a  mass-house,  that  you  make  the 
sign  of  Rome  ?" 

Then  the  young  girl  knelt  beside  him,  kissed 
his  trembling  hand,  and  cried  : 

"  0,  forbear  to  chide,  my  father;  in  that 
faith  my  mother  died! 

"On  her  wooden   cross  at  Simcoe  the  dowa 

and  piinshine  fall, 
As   they   fell  on  Sptirwiiik's  graveyard ;  and 

the  dear  God  Watches  all  1" 


OUR  DEBT  TO  IRVING. 


563 


The  old  man  stroked  the  fair  head  that  rested 

on  his  knee ; 
"  Your  words,  dear  child,"  he  answered,  "  are 

God's  rebuke  to  me. 

"  Creed  and  rite  perchance  may  differ,  yet  our 

faith  and  hope  be  one. 
Let  me  be  your  father's  father,  let  him  be  to 

me  a  son." 

When  the  horn,  on  Sabbath  morning,  through 

the  still  and  frosty  air, 
From    Spurwink,   Pool,   and    Black   Point, 

called  to  sermon  and  to  prayer, 

To  the  goodly  house  of  worship,  where,  in 

order  due  and  fit, 
As   by   public    vote    directed,   classed    and 

ranked,  the  people  sit ; 

Mistress   first   and    goodwife    after,    clerkly 

squire  before  the  clown. 
From  the  brave  coat  lace  embroidered,  to  the 

gray  frock  shading  down  ; 

From  the  pulpit  read  the  preacher, — "  Good- 
man Garvin  and  his  wife 

Fain  would  thank  the  Lord,  whose  kindness 
hath  followed  them  through  life. 


"  For  the  great  and  crowning  mercy,  that 
their  daughter,  from  the  wild, 

Where  she  rests  (they  hope  in  God's  peac«), 
has  sent  to  them  her  child  ; 

"And  the  prayers  of  all  God's  people  they 

ask,  that  they  may  prove 
Not  unworthy,  through  their  weaknes-s,  of 

such  special  proof  of  love." 

As  the  preacher  prayed,  uprising,  the  aged 

couple  stood. 
And  the  fair  Canadian   also,  in  her  modest 

maidenhood. 

Thought  the  elders,  grave  and  doubting,  "  She 

is  Papist  born  and  bred  "; 
Thought  the  young  men,  "  'Tis  an  angel  in 

Mary  Garvin's  stead!" 


OUR  DEBT  TO  IRVING. 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER. 


I^IIE  service  that  Irving  rendered  to  American  letters  no  critic  dis- 
*^  putes,  nor  is  there  any  question  of  our  national  indebtedness  to 
him  for  investing  a  crude  and  new  land  with  the  enduring  charms 
of  romance  and  tradition.  In  this  respect,  our  obligation  to  him 
is  that  of  Scotland  to  Scott  and  Burns  ;  and  it  is  an  obligation 
due  only,  in  all  history,  to  here  and  there  a  fortunate  creator  to 
whose  genius  opportunity  is  kind.  The  Knickerbocker  Legend  and  the 
romance  with  which  Irving  has  invested  the  Hudson  are  a  priceless  legacy ; 
and  this  would  remain  an  imperishable  possession  in  popular  tradition  if 
the  literature  creating  it  were  destroyed.    His  position  in  American  litera- 


564  OUR  DEBT  TO  IRVING. 

ture,  or  in  that  of  the  English  tongue,  will  be  determined  only  by  the 
slow  settling  of  opinion,  which  no  critic  can  foretell,  and  the  operation  of 
which  no  criticism  seems  able  to  explain.  I  venture  to  believe,  however, 
that  the  verdict  will  not  be  in  accord  with  much  of  the  present  prevalent 
criticism. 

Irving  was  always  the  literary  man ;  he  had  the  habits,  the  idiosyn- 
crasies of  the  literary  man.  I  mean  that  he  regarded  life  not  from  the 
philanthropic,  the  economic,  the  political,  the  philosophic,  the  metaphy- 
sic,  the  scientific  or  the  theologic,  but  purely  from  the  literary  point  of 
view. 

He  belongs  to  that  class  of  which  Johnson  and  Goldsmith  are  perhaps 
as  good  types  as  any,  and  to  which  America  has  added  very  few.  The 
literary  point  of  view  is  taken  by  few  in  any  generation ;  it  may  seem  to 
the  world  of  very  little  consequence  in  the  pressure  of  all  the  complex 
interests  of  life,  and  it  may  even  seem  trivial  amid  the  tremendous  ener- 
gies applied  to  immediate  affairs;  but  it  is  the  point  of  view  that 
endures ;  if  its  creations  do  not  mould  human  life,  like  the  Roman  law, 
they  remain  to  charm  and  civilize,  like  the  poems  of  Horace.  You  must 
not  ask  more  of  them  than  that. 

And  this  leads  me  to  speak  of  Irving's  moral  quality,  which  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  exclude  from  a  literary  estimate,  even  in  the  face  of  the 
current  gospel  of  art  for  art's  sake.  There  is  something  that  made  Scott 
and  Irving  personally  loved  by  the  millions  of  their  readers,  who  had  only 
the  dimmest  ideas  of  their  personality.  This  was  some  quality  perceived 
in  what  they  wrote.  Each  one  can  define  it  for  himself;  there  it  is,  and  I 
do  not  see  why  it  is  not  as  integral  a  part  of  the  authors — an  clement  in 
the  estimate  of  their  future  position — as  what  wc  term  their  intellect,  their 
knowledge,  their  skill,  or  their  art.  However  you  rate  it,  you  cannot 
account  for  Irving's  influence  in  the  world  without  it.  In  his  tender  tri- 
bute to  Irving,  the  great-hearted  Thackeray,  who  saw  as  clearly  as  anybody 
the  place  of  mere  literary  art  in  the  sum  total  of  life,  quoted  the  dying 
words  of  Scott  to  Lockhart,  "  Be  a  good  man,  my  dear."  We  know  well 
enough  that  the  great  author  of  "  The  Newcomes  "  and  the  great  author 
of  "  The  Heart  of  Midlothian  "  recognized  the  abiding  value  in  literature 
of  integrity,  sincerity,  purity,  charity,  faith.  Those  are  beneficences;  and 
Irving's  literature,  walk  round  it  and  measum  it  by  whatovor  critiad  in- 
struments you  will,  is  a  beneficent  literature.  TIk;  author  loved  good  women 
and  little  children  and  a  pure  life;  he  had  faith  in  his  fellow-men,  a  kindly 
synipathy  with  the  lowest,  without  any  subservience  to  Ihn  highest;  ho 
reUiined  a  Vjelief  in  the  possibility  of  chivalrous  actions,  and  did   not  caro 


THE  GLADIATOR. 


565 


to  envelop  tlicm  in  a  cynical  suspicion  ;  he  was  an  author  still  capable  of 
an  enthusiasm.  Ilis  books  arc  wholesome,  full  of  sweetness  and  charm,  of 
humor  without  any  sting,  of  amusement  without  any  stain ;  and  their 
more  solid  qualities  are  marred  by  neither  pedantry  nor  pretension. 


THE  GLADIATOR. 


J.    A.    JONES. 


HEY  led  a  lion  from  bis  den, 
il^        The  lord  of  Afric's  sun-scorched 
m't  plain; 

4,  "  And  there  he   stood,  stern   foe  of 

men. 
And  shook  his  flowing  mane. 
There's  not  of  all  Rome's  heroes,  ten 
That  dare  abide  this  game. 
His  bright  eye  naught  of  lightning  lacked  ; 
His  voice  was  like  the  cataract. 


They  brought  a  dark-haired  man  along, 
Whose   limbs  with   gyves   of  brass   were 
bound  ; 

Youthful  he  seemed,  and  bold,  and  strong, 
And  yet  unscathed  of  wound. 

Blithely  he  stepped  among  the  throng, 
And  careless  threw  around 

A  dark  eye,  such  as  courts  the  path 

Of  him  who  braves  a  Dacian's  wrath. 

Then  .shouted  the  plebeian  crowd, — 
Rung  the  glad  galleries  with  the  sound  ; 

And  from  the  throne  there  spake  aloud 
A  voice, — "  Be  the  bold  man  unbound  ! 

And,  by  Rome's  sceptre,  yet  unbowed. 
By  Rome,  earth's  monarch  crowned, 

Who  dares  the  bold,  the  unequal  strife. 

Though  doomed  to  death,  shall  save  his  life." 

Joy  was  upon  that  dark  man's  face  : 
And  thus,  with  laughing  eye,  spake  he: 

"  Loose  ye  the  lord  of  Zaara's  waste, 
And  let  my  arras  be  free : 

'  He  has  a  martial  heart,'  thou  sayest ; 
But  oh  !  who  will  not  be 

A  liero,  when  he  tights  for  life, 

For  home  and  countrv,  babes  and  wife? 


"  And  thus  I  for  the  strife  prepare  : 
The  Thracian  falchion  to  inc  bring, 

But  ask  th'  imperial  leave  to  spare 
The  shield, — a  useless  thing. 

Were  I  a  Samniie's  rage  to  dare, 
Then  o'er  me  would  I  fling 

The  broad  orb  ;  but  to  lion's  wrath 

The  shield  were  but  a  sword  of  lath." 

And  he  has  bared  his  shining  blade. 
And  springs  he  on  the  shaggy  foe , 

Dreadful  the  strife,  but  briefly  played ; — 
The  desert-king  lies  low-: 

His  long  and  loud  death-howl  is  made ; 
And  there  must  end  the  show. 

And  when  the  multitude  were  calm. 

The  favorite  freedman  took  the  palm. 

"  Kneel  down,  Rome's  emperor  beside  !'' 
He  knelt,  that  dark  man  ; — o'er  his  brow 

Was  thrown  a  wreath  in  crimson  dyed  ; 
And  fair  words  gild  it  now : 

"  Thou  art  the  bravest  youth  that  ever  triet 
To  lay  a  lion  low  ; 

And  from  our  presence  forth  thou  go'st 

To  lead  the  Dacians  of  our  host." 

Then  flu.shed  his  cheek,  but  not  with  pride, 
And  grieved  and  gloomily  spake  he : 

"  My  cabin  stands  where  blithely  glide 
Proud  Danube's  waters  to  the  sea : 

I  have  a  young  and  blooming  bride, 
And  I  have  children  three; — 

No  Roman  wealth  or  rank  can  give 

Such  joy  as  in  their  arms  to  live. 

"  My  wifo  sits  at  the  cabin  door. 

With  throbbing  heart  and  swollen  eyes;— • 


566 


THE  RIVER  PATH. 


While  tears  her  cheek  are  coursing  o'er, 

She  speaks  of  sundered  ties  ; 
She  bids  my  tender  babes  deplore 

The  death  their  father  dies  ; 
She  tells  these  jewels  of  my  home, 
I  bleed  to  please  the  rout  of  Rome 
I  cannot  let  those  cherubs  stray 


Without  their  sire's  protecting  care  ; 
And  I  would  chase  the  griefs  away 

Which  cloud  my  wedded  fair." 
The  monarch  spoke  ;  the  guards  obey ; 

The  gates  unclosed  are : 
He's  gone !  No  golden  bribes  divide 
The  Dacian  from  his  babes  and  bride. 


THE  RIVER  PATH. 


Sl&ji^O  bird  song  floated  down  the  liill, 
5|^i^  The  tanglfd  bank  bdow  was  still ; 
"S^^CV   No  ruHtle  from  the  birchen  Btom, 
iV»         No  ripple  from  the  water's  hem. 

The  duBk  of  twilight  round  iis  grew. 
W.-  fflt  the  falling  of  tlie  d.^w, 
For  from  ua,  ere  the  day  was  dune, 
The  wooded  hills  shut  out  the  hum. 

But  on  the  river'p  farthf'ft  tj<lc 
Wc  Baw  the  hillto|.fl,  glorified, — 
A  tender  glow,  exftcding  fair, 
A  dream  of  day  without  its  glare. 


JOHN    G.    WIirTTIKR. 


With  us  the  damp,  the  chill,  the  gloom  : 
With  them  the  .sunset's  rosy  bloom  ; 
While  dark,  through  willowy  vistas  .seen, 
Tlie  river  rolled  in  shade  between. 

From  out  the  darkness  where  wo  trod, 
We  gaz<-d  upon  those  hills  of  (lod, 
Whose  light  Bccmcd  not  of  moon  or  sun. 
Wo  Bpako  not,  but  our  tliDiigiit  was  one 

We  paused,  as  if  from  that  bright  shore 
Bei'koned  our  dear  ones  gnnn  before  ; 
And  stilled  our  beating  hearts  to  hear 
The  Voices  lout  to  mortal  ear  I 


THE  CROWDED  STREETS. 


567 


Sudden  our  pathway  turned  from  night ; 
The  hills  swung  open  to  the  light ; 
Through    their    green    gates    the    sunshine 

showed, 
A.  long,  slant  splendor  downward  tiowed. 

Down  glade  and  glen  and  bank  it  rolled ; 
It  bridged  and  shaded  stream  with  gold  ; 
And  borne  on  piers  of  mist,  allied 
The  shadowy  with  the  sunlit  side. 


"So,"  prayed  we,   "  when  our  feet  draw  near 
The  river  dark,  with  mortal  fear. 
And  the  night  cometh  chill  with  dew, 
0  Father !  let  thy  light  break  through. 

"So  let  the  hills  of  doubt  divide, 
So  bridge  with  faith  the  sunless  tide ! 
So  let  the  eyes  that  fail  on  earth 
On  thy  eternal  hills  look  forth  ; 
And  in  thy  beckoning  angels  know 
The  dear  ones  whom  we  loved  below !" 


DOT  LAMBS  WHAT  MARY  HAF  GOT. 


;.VnY  haf  got  a  leetle  lambs  already  ;      Und  so  dot  school-master  dit  kick  der  lamns 


gwick  oud ; 

Likewise  dot  lambs  dit  loaf  around  on  dei 
outsides, 
Und    did    shoo    der   flies    mit    his   tail   off 
patiently  aboud — 

Until  Marj-  d-.d  come  also  from  dot  school- 
house  oud. 

Und  den  dot  lambs  did  run  right  away  gwick 
to -Mary, 
Und  dit  make  his  het  gwick  on    Mary'3 
arms, 
Like  he  would  said,  "  I  don't  was  schared, 
Mary  would  kept  me  from  droubles  ena- 
how !' 


Und  efery  times  dot  Mary  did  vend  oud, 
Dot  lambs  vent  also  out,  wid  Mary. 


Dot  lambs  dit  follow  Mary  von   day  of  der 
school-house,  1 

Vich  vos  obbosition   to   der  rules  of  her      "  Vot  vos  der  reasoa  aboud  it,  of  dot  lambs 


school-master ; 
Also,  vich  ir  did  caused  dose  schillen  to  smile 
out  loud, 
Vcn  dey  did  saw  dose  lambs  on  der  insides 
ov  der  school-house. 


und  Mary  ?" 
Dose  schillen  did  ask  it  dot  school-master : 
"  Veil,  don'd  you   know  it,  dot  Mary  lofe 

dose  lambs  already?" 
Dot  school-master  did  said. 


THE  CROWDED  STREETS. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


^?ET  me  move  slowly  through  the  street,  !  How  fast  the  flitting  figures  come ; 

ll         Filled  with  an  ever-sliifting  train,  I  The  mild,  the  fierce,  the  stony  face — 

^^^L   Ami'l  the  sound  of  steps  that  beat  |  Some   bright,  with   thoughtless   smiles,  and 

^1              The  murmuring  walks  like  autumn  j  some 

•  rain. 


Where  secret  tears  have  left  their  trace, 


668 


JERUSALEM  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


They  pass  to  toil,  to  strife,  to  rest — 
To  halls  in  which  the  feast  is  spread — 

To  chambers  where  the  funeral  guest 
In  silence  sits  beside  the  bed. 

And  some  to  happy  homes  repair. 

Where  children  pressing  cheek  to  cheek, 

With  mute  caresses  shall  declare 
The  tenderness  they  cannot  speak. 

And  some  who  walk  in  calmness  here, 
Shall  shudder  as  they  reach  the  door 

Where  one  who  made  their  dwelling  dear, 
Its  flower,  its  light,  is  seen  no  more. 

Youth,  with  pale  cheek  and  tender  frame. 
And  dreams  of  greatness  in  thine  eye, 

Go'st  thou  to  build  an  early  name, 
Or  early  in  the  task  to  d^e  ? 

Keen  son  of  trade,  with  eager  brow, 
Who  is  now  fluttering  in  thy  snare, 


Thy  golden  fortunes  tower  they  now, 
Or  melt  the  glittering  spires  in  air  ? 

Who  of  this  crowd  to-night  shall  tread 
The  dance  till  daylight  gleams  again  ? 

To  sorrow  o'er  the  untimely  dead  ? 
Who  writhe  in  throes  of  mortal  pain  ? 

Some,  famine  struck,  shall  think  how  long 
The  cold,  dark  hours,  how  slow  the  light; 

And  some,  who  flaunt  amid  the  throng, 
Shall  hide  in  dens  of  shame  to-night. 

Each  where  his  tasks  or  pleasure  call. 
They  pass  and  heed  each  other  not ; 

There  is  one  who  heeds,  who  holds  them  all 
In  His  large  love  and  boundless  thought. 

These  struggling  tides  of  life  that  seem 
In  waj^ward,  aimless  course  to  tend, 

Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 
That  rolls  to  its  appointed  end. 


JER  USALEM  B  Y  MOONLIGHT. 


BENJAMIN    DISRAELI. 


e^Ts-^ 


I 


pCTIf^TIE  broad  moon  lingers  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Olivet,  but  its  beam 
c-A>^  has  long  left  the  garden  of  Gethsemane  and  the  tomb  of  Absalom, 
•4-;-:.  the  waters  of  Kedron  and  the  dark  abyss  of  Jehoshaphat.  Full 
falls  its  splendor,  however,  on  the  opposite  city,  vivid  and  defined 
in  its  silvery  blaze.  A  lofty  wall,  with  turrets  and  towers,  and  fre- 
quent gates,  undulates  with  the  unequal  ground  which  it  covers,  as  it  en- 
circles the  lost  capital  of  Jehovah.  It  is  a  city  of  hills,  ftir  more  famous 
than  thoHO  of  Rome;  for  all  Europe  has  heard  of  Sion  and  of  Calvary,  while 
tlio  Arab  and  the  Assyrian,  and  the  tribe.-;  imd  n.ition.s  bi'veiid,  are  igno- 
rant of  the  Capitolian  and  Avcntino  Mounts. 

Thebroadsteep  of  Sion,  crowned  with  the  towci-  of  David;  nearer  still, 
Mount  Moriah,  with  the  gorgeous  temple  of  the  (Jod  of  Abraham,  but  built, 
ahvs!  by  the  child  of  Hagar,  and  not  by  Sarah's  chosen  one;  close  to  its 
cedars  and  its  ciypreasea,  its  lofty  spires  and  airy  arches,  the  moonlight  falls 
upon  Betliosda's  pool;  farther  on,  entered  by  the  gate  of  St.  Stephen,  the 
eye,  though  'tis  the  noon  of  night,  traces  with  case  the  Street  of  Grief,  a 
long,  winding  ascent  to  a  viust  cupolaed  pile  that  now  covers  Calvary,  called 
the  Street  of  Grief  because  there  the  most  illustrious  uf  the  human  aa  well 


JERUSALEM  BY  MOONLIGHT.  569 

as  of  the  Hebrew  race,  the  descendant  of  King  David,  and  the  divine  Son 
of  the  most  favored  of  women,  twice  sank  under  that  burden  of  suffering 
and  shame,  which  is  now  throughout  all  Christendom  the  emblem  of  triumph 
and  of  honor ;  passing  over  groups  and  masses  of  houses  built  of  stone,  with 
terraced  roofs,  or  surmounted  with  small  domes,  we  reach  the  hill  of  Salera, 
where  Melchisedeck  built  his  mystic  citadel ;  and  still  remains  the  hill  of 
Scopas,  where  Titus  gazed  upon  Jerusalem  on  the  eve  of  his  final  assault. 
Titus  destroyed  the  temple.  The  religion  of  Judea  has  in  turn  subverted 
the  fanes  which  were  raised  to  his  father  and  to  himself  in  their  imperial 
capital ;  and  the  God  of  Abraham,  of  Isaac,  and  of  Jacob,  is  now  worshipped 
before  every  altar  in  Kome. 

The  moon  has  sunk  behind  the  Mount  of  Olives,  and  the  stars  in  the 
darker  sky  shine  doubly  bright  over  the  sacred  city.  The  all-pervading 
stillness  is  broken  by  a  breeze  that  seems  to  have  traveled  over  the  plain  of 
Sharon  from  the  sea.  It  wails  among  the  tombs,  and  sighs  among  the  cypress 
groves.     The  palm-tree  trembles  as  it  passes,  as  if  it  were  a  spirit  of  woe. 

Is  it  the  breeze  that  has  traveled  over  the  plain  of  Sharon  from  the 
sea  ?  Or  is  it  the  haunting  voice  of  prophets  mourning  over  the  city  that 
they  could  not  save  ?  Their  spirits  surely  would  linger  on  the  land  where 
their  Creator  had  deigned  to  dwell,  and  over  whose  impending  f;ite  Omni- 
potence had  shed  human  tears.  Who  can  but  believe  that,  at  the  midnight 
hour,  from  the  summit  of  the  Ascension,  the  great  departed  of  Israel  as- 
semble to  gaze  upon  the  battlements  of  their  mystic  city  ?  There  might 
be  counted  heroes  and  sages,  who  need  shrink  from  no  rivalry  with  the 
brightest  and  the  wisest  of  other  lands  ;  but  the  law-giver  of  the  time  of 
the  Pharaohs,  whose  laws  are  still  obeyed  ;  the  monarch  whose  reign  has 
ceased  for  three  thousand  years,  but  whose  wisdom  is  a  proverb  in  all 
nations  of  the  earth ;  the  teacher  whose  doctrines  have  modeled  civilized 
Europe ;  the  greatest  of  legislators,  the  greatest  of  administrators,  and 
the  greatest  of  reformers ;  what  race,  extinct  or  living,  can  produce  three 
such  men  as  these  ? 

The  last  light  is  extinguished  in  the  village  of  Bethany.  The  wailing 
breeze  has  become  a  moaning  wind ;  a  white  film  spreads  ever  the  purple 
sky;  the  stars  are  veiled,  the  stars  are  hid;  all  becomes  as  dark  as  the 
waters  of  Kedron  and  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat.  The  tower  of  David 
merges  into  obscurity  ;  no  longer  glitter  the  minarets  of  the  mosque  of 
Omar ;  Bethesda's  angelic  waters,  the  gate  of  Stephen,  the  street  of  sacred 
sorrow,  the  hill  of  Salem,  and  the  heights  of  Scopas,  can  no  longer  be  dis- 
cerned. Alone  in  the  increasing  darkness,  while  the  very  line  of  the  walls 
gradually  eludes  the  eye,  the  church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  is  a  beacon-hght 


570 


BATTLE  UF  LUUKUUT  MULTs'TAlN. 


^   4 


BATTLE  OF  LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN. 


(JKOIKIK   H.    IlOKER. 

-t-  — 

**>V"lVE    mc    but    two    brigadcH,"    said  j  At  early  inorning  catne  an  onlcr  tlmt  h^I  tli« 
lIook<T,    frowning    at     fortifiod  !  goncrarH  face  aglow ; 

T,ookout,  "Now,"  said  he  to  his  Ktaff,  "draw  out  my 


Xt>1f 


And  I'll  engage  to  swecj)  yon 
mountain  (dear  of  that  mocking 
rebel  rout  !" 


BoldiorH.     Grant  Hays  that  I  may  go  !" 
Hither  and  thither  dash'd  each  eager  colonel 
to  join  his  regiment, 


BATTLE  OF  LOOKOUT  MOUNTAIN. 


571 


While  a  low  rumor  of  the  daring  purpose  ran 
on  from  tent  to  tent ; 

For  the  long-roll  was  sounded  in  the  valley, 
and  the  keen  trumpet's  bray, 

And  the  wild  laughter  of  the  swarthy  veter- 
ans, who  cried,  "  We  fight  to-day !" 

The  solid  tramp  of  infantry,  tlie  rumble  of 

the  great  jolting  gun. 
The  sharp,  clear  order,  and  the  fierce  steeds 

neighing,  "Why's  not  the  fight  begun  ?" — 
All  these  plain  harbingers  of  sudden  conflict 

broke  on  the  startled  ear  ; 
And,  last,  arose  a  sound  that  made  your  blood 

leap — the  ringing  battle  cheer. 

The  lower  works  were  carried  at  one  onset. 
Like  a  vast  roaring  sea 

Of  lead  and  fire,  our  soldiers  from  the  trench- 
es swept  out  the  enemy  ; 

And  we  could  see  che  gray  coats  swarming  up 
from  the  mountain's  leafy  base. 

To  join  their  comrades  in  the  higher  fastness 
— for  life  or  death  the  race  ! 

Then  our  long  line  went  winding  round  the 

mountain,  in  a  huge  serpent  track. 
And  the  slant  sun  upon  it  flash'd  and  glim- 

mer'd,  as  on  a  dragon's  back. 
Higher  and  higher  the  column's  head  push'd 

onward,  ere  the  rear  moved  a  man  ; 
And  soon  the  skirmish-lines  their  straggling 

volleys  and  single  shots  began. 

Then  the  bald  head  of  Lookout  flamed  and 
bellow'd,  and  all  its  batteries  woke. 

And  down  the  mountain  pour'd  the  bomb- 
shells, puffing  into  our  eyes  their  smoke  ; 

And  balls  and  grape-shot  rained  upon  our  col- 
umn, that  bore  the  angry  shower 

As  if  it  were  no  more  than  that  soft  dropping 
which  scarcely  stirs  the  flower. 

Oh,  glorious  courage  that  inspires  the  hero, 
and  runs  through  all  his  men ! 

The  heart  that  fail'd  beside  the  Rappahan- 
nock, it  was  itself  again  ! 

The  star  that  circumstance  and  jealous  faction 
shrouded  in  envious  night, 

Here  shone  with  all  the  splendor  of  its  na- 
ture, and  with  a  freer  flight ! 


Hark  !  hark  !  there  go  the  well-known  cra-sh 
ing  volleys,  the  long-continued  roar, 

That  swells  and  falls,  but  never  ceases  wholly, 
until  the  fight  is  o'er. 

Up  towards  the  crystal  gates  of  heaven  ascen- 
ding, the  mortal  tempests  beat, 

As  if  they  sought  to  try  their  cause  together 
before  God's  very  feet ! 

We  saw  our  troops  had  gain'd  a  footing  al- 
most beneath  the  topmost  ledge, 

And  back  and  forth  the  rival  lines  went  surg- 
ing upon  the  dizzy  edge. 

Sometimes  we  saw  our  rnen  fall  backward 
slowly,  and  groaned  in  our  despair ; 

Or  cheer'd  when  now  and  then  a  stricken 
rebel  plunged  out  in  open  air, 

Down,  down,  a  thousand  empty  fathoms  drop- 
ping, his  God  alone  knows  where  ! 

At  eve,  thick  haze  upon  the  mountain  gath- 
ered, with  rising  smoke  stain'd  black. 

And  not  a  glimpse  of  the  contending  armies 
shone  through  the  swirling  rack. 

Night  fell  o'er  all ;  but  still  they  flash'd  their 
lightnings  and  rolled  their  thunders  loud, 

Though  no  man  knew  upon  what  side  was 
going  that  battle  in  the  cloud. 

Night!  what  a  night! — of  anxious  thought 
and  wonder  ;  but  still  no  tidings  came 

From  the  bare  summit  of  the  trembling  moun- 
tain, still  wrapp'd  in  mist  and  flame. 

But  towards  the  sleepless  dawn,  stillness,  more 
dreadful  than  the  fierce  sound  of  war, 

Settled  o'er  Nature,  as  if  she  stood  breathless 
before  the  morning  star. 

As  the  sun  rose,  dense  clouds  of  smoky  vapor 

boil'd  from  the  valley's  deeps. 
Dragging  their  torn  and  ragged  edges  slowly 

up  through  the  tree-clad  steeps. 
And  rose  and  rose,  till  Lookout,  like  a  vision 

above  us  grandly  stood, 
And  over  his  black  crags  and  storm-blanch  d 

headlands  burst  the  warm,  golden  flood. 

Thousands  of  eyes  were  fix'd  upon  the  moun- 
tain, and  thousands  held  their  breath. 

And  the  vast  army,  in  the  valley  watching 
seem'd  touched  with  sudden  death. 


572 


JOHN  AND  TIBBIE  DAVISON'S  DISPUTE. 


High  o'er  us  so?jed  great  Lookout,  robed  in 

purple,  a  glory  oa  his  face, 
A  human  meaning  in  his  hard,  calm  features, 

beneath  that  heavenly  grace. 

Out  on  a  crag  walk'd  something — What?  an 
eagle  that  treads  yon  giddy  height  ? 

Surely  no  man  !  But  still  he  clamber'i  for- 
ward into  the  full,  rich  light  ,• 

Then  up  he  started,  with  a  sudden  motion, 
and  from  the  blazing  crag 

Flung  to  the  morning  breeze  and  sunny  ra- 
diance the  dear  old  starry  flag ! 

Ah  I  then  what  foUow'd  ?  Scarr'd  and  war- 
worn soldier.',  like  girls,  flush'd  through 
their  tan. 


And  down  the  thousand  wrinkles  of  the  bat- 
tles a  thousand  tear-drops  ran  ; 

Men  seized  each  other  in  return'd  embraces, 
and  sobbed  for  verj'  love ; 

A  spirit  which  made  all  that  moment  broth- 
ers seem'd  falling  from  above. 


And,  as  we  gazed,  around  the  mountain's 

summit  our  glittering  files  appear'd  ; 
Into  the  rebel  works  we  saw  them  marching; 

and  we — we  cheer'd,  we  cheer'd  ! 
And  they  above  waved  all  their  flags  before 

us,  and  join'd  our  frantic  shout. 
Standing,  like  demigods,  in  light  and  triumph, 

upon  their  own  Lookout ! 


JOHN  AND  TIBBIE  DAVISON'S  DISPUTE. 


ROBERT    LEIGHTON. 


?OHN  Da^'isoD.  and  Tibbie,  his  wife, 
Sat  toa.s\.ing  their  taes  ae  nicht 
^^^    WTien  something  startit  in  the  fluir, 
x  And  blinkit  bv  their  sicht. 


"Guidwiff,"  quotli  Ji)lm,  "did  ye  see 
that  moose  ?" 
WTiar  sorra  was  the  cat?" 
"  A  moose?"  "Aye,  a  moose."  "  Na,  na,  guid- 
man, 
It  was'na  a  moose,  'twas  a  rat." 

•  Ow,  ow,  guidwif*^,  to  think  ye've  been 

Sae  lang  aboot  the  hoose, 
A.n'  no  to  ken  a  moose  frae  a  rat  I 

Yon  was'na  a  rat!  'twas  a  moose." 

"  I've  seen  muir  mice  than  you,  guidman — 

An'  what  think  yo  o'  that? 
Sae  baud  your  tongue  an'  say  naf  m.iir 
I  tfll  yo,  it  WM  a  rat." 

Mr.  liiiud  my  tongue  for  ymi,  guidwif'' ! 

I'll  bo  mfstcr  o'  this  hoose — 
^  Haw't  as  yilain  aH  cen  could  sec't. 

An'  I  tell  ye,  it  waa  a  mooHol" 


"  If  j''ou're  the  mester  o'  the  hoose 

It's  I'm  the  mistress  o't ; 
An'  /  ken  best  what's  in  the  hoose, 

Sae  I  tell  ye  it  was  a  rat." 

"  Weel,  weel,  guidwife,  gae  inak'  the  brose, 

An'  ca'  it  what  ye  jilease." 
So  up  she  rose  and  made  the  brose. 

While  John  sat  toasting  his  taes. 

They  supit,  and  supit,  and  -upit  llii'  brose, 
And  aye  their  lips  played  smack  ; 

They  supit,  and  supit,  and  supit  tlie  lirose, 
Till  their  lugs  began  to  crack. 

"Sic  fules  we  were  to  fa'  oot  guidwife, 

Aboot  a  moose — "     "  A  wliat  ? 
It's  a  lee  ye  tell,  an'  I  say  it  again. 

It  was'na  a  moose,  'twas  a  rat !" 

"  Wad  yc  ca'  me  a  li'car  to  my  very  face? 

"  My  faith,  but  yo  craw  rrooso! 
I  toll  yo,  Til),  I  nnvor  will  })oar't  — 

'Twas  a  moose!"  "  'Twas  a  rat !"  "  'Twas  a 
mooHO !" 


THE  BELLS  OF  SIIANDON. 


573 


Wi'  her  spoon  she  straok  him  ower  the  pow — 

"  Ye  dour  auld  doit,  tak'  that ; 
Gae  to  your  bed,  ye  canker'd  sumph — 

'Twas  a  rat !  'Twas  a  moose !  'Twas  a  rat!" 

She  sent  the  brose  caup  at  his  heels, 

As  he  hirpled  ben  the  hoose ; 
Yet  he  shoved  oot  his  head  as  he  streekit  the 
door, 

And  cried,  "  'Twas  a  moose  I  'twas  amoose!" 


But  when  the  carle  was  fast  asleep 

She  paid  him  back  for  that. 
And  roared  into  his  sleeping  lug, 

"  'Twas  a  rat !  'twas  a  rat !  'twas  a  rat !' 


The  de'il  be  wi'  me  if  I  think 

It  was  a  beast  ava  ! — 
Neist  mornin',  as  she  sweepit  the  fluir, 

She  faund  wee  Johnnie's  ba' ! 


THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDOK 


FATHER  PEOUT. 


^^ITH  deep  affection 

m'^a         Ann   ■ro/>/-il  lo/tf  irvn 


And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 
Their  magic  spells. 

On  tUis  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander. 
And  thus  grow  fonder. 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee, — 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand,  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in. 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine ; 
While  at  a  glib  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate  ; 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine. 

For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free. 
Made  the  bells  of  Shanaon 


Sound  far  more  grand,  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 


I've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican  ; 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame : 


But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnh". 
0  !  the  Bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand,  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow  ; 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk,  oh 
In  Saint  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer. 
From  the  tapering  summits 

Of  tall  minarets. 


674 


SIGHTS  ON  THE  SEA. 


Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them  ; 
But  there's  an  anthem 
More  dear  to  me — 


'Tis  the  hells  of  Shandon, 
That  60und  fco  grand,  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 


SIGHTS  ON  THE  SEA. 


WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


ifO  one  given  to  day-dreaming,  and  fond  of  losing  himself  in  reveries, 
a  sea  voyage  is  full  of  subjects  for  meditation  ;  but  then  they  are 
"•^^     the  wonders  of  the  deep,  and  of  the  air,  and  rather  tend  to  abstract 
k        the  mind  from  worldly  themes.     I  delighted  to  loll  over  the  quar- 
J  ter-railing,  or  climb  to  the  main-top,  of  a  calm  day,  and  muse  for 

hours  together  on  the  tranquil  bosom  of  a  summer's  sea ;  to  gaze  upon  the 
piles  of  golden  clouds  just  peering  above  the  horizon,  foncy  them  some  fairy 
realms,  and  people  them  with  a  creation  of  my  own ; — to  watch  the  gentle 
undulating  billows,  rolling  their  silver  volumes,  as  if  to  die  away  on  those 
happy  shores.  There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled  security  and  awo 
with  which  I  looked  dov/n  from  my  giddy  height,  on  the  monsters  of  the  deep 
at  their  uncouth  gambols.      Shoals  of  porpoises  tumbling  about  the  bow 


TUK    I'OKI'OIHE. 


of  the  ship;  the  grampus  slowly  heaving  his  huge  form  abovP  the  surface; 
or  tlio  ravenous  shark,  darting  like  a  spectre,  through  the  blue  waters. 
My  imagination  would  conjure  up  all  that  I  had  heard  or  read  of  the  watery 
world  beneath  mo ;  of  the  finny  herds  that  roam  its  fathomless  valleys ;  of 


ST.  JOHN  THE  AGED.  575 


the  shapeless  monsters  that  lurk  among  the  very  foundations  of  the  earth; 
and  of  those  wild  phantasms  that  swell  the  tales  of  fishermen  and  sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge  of  the  ocean,  would 
be  another  theme  of  idle  speculation.  How  interesting  this  fragment  of 
a  world,  hastening  to  rejoin  the  great  mass  of  existence  !  What  a  glorious 
monument  of  human  invention ;  \yhich  has  in  a  manner  triumphed  over 
wind  and  wave  ;  has  brought  the  ends  of  the  world  into  communication ; 
has  established  an  interchange  of  blessings,  pouring  into  the  sterile  regions 
of  the  north  all  the  luxuries  of  the  south ;  has  diflfused  the  light  of  know- 
ledge and  the  charities  of  cultivated  life ;  and  has  thus  bound  together 
those  scattered  portions  of  the  human  race,  between  which  nature  seemed 
to  have  thrown  an  insurmountal^le  barrier. 

We  one  day  descried  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at  a  distance. 
At  sea,  everything  that  breaks  the  monotony  of  the  surrounding  expanse 
attracts  attention.  It  proved  to  be  the  mast  of  a  ship  that  must  have 
been  completely  wrecked ;  for  there  were  the  remains  of  handkerchiefs, 
by  which  some  of  the  crew  had  fastened  themselves  to  this  spar,  to  prevent 
their  being  washed  off  by  the  waves.  There  was  no  trace  by  which  the 
name  of  the  ship  could  be  ascertained.  The  wreck  had  evidently  drifted 
about  for  many  months ;  clusters  of  shell-fish  had  fastened  about  it,  and  long 
sea- weeds  flaunted  at  its  sides.  But  where,  thought  I,  is  the  crew  ?  Their 
struggle  has  long  been  over — they  have  gone  down  amidst  the  roar  of  the 
tempest — their  bones  lie  whitening  among  the  caverns  of  the  deep ;  silence, 
oblivion,  like  the  waves,  have  closed  over  them,  and  no  one  can  tell  the  story 
of  their  end.  What  sighs  have  been  wafted  after  that  ship  !  What  prayers 
ofiered  up  at  the  deserted  fireside  of  home  !  How  often  has  the  mistress, 
the  wife,  the  mother,  pored  over  the  daily  news,  to  catch  some  casual 
intelligence  of  this  rover  of  the  deep !  How  has  expectation  darkened 
into  anxiety — anxiety  into  dread — and  dread  into  despair !  Alas  !  not  one 
memento  may  ever  return  for  love  to  cherish.  All  that  may  ever  be 
known,  is,  that  she  sailed  from  her  port,  "and  was  never  heard  of  more  ! '" 


ST.  JOHN  THE  AGED. 


M    growing    very  old.     This    weary  Is  bent  and  hoary  with  its  weight  of  years, 

^  head  |  The  limbs  that  followed  Him  my  Master  oft, 

p?  That  hath  so  often  leaned  on  Jesus'  |  From  Galilee  to  Judah  ;  yea,  that  stood 

breast  Beneath  the  cross,  and  trembled  with   Hii 
In  days  long  past,  that  seem  almost  I  groans, 

a  dream —  Refuse  to  bear  me  even  through  the  streets. 


576 


ST.  JOHN  THE  AGED. 


To  preach  unto  my  children.     Even  my  lips  | 
Refuse  to  form  the  words  my  heart  sends 

forth. 
My  ears  are   dull ;    they   scarcely  hear  the 

sobs 
Of  my   dear  children    gathered   round   my 

coacli ; 
My  eyes  so  dim  they  cannot  see  the  tears. 
God  lays  His  hand  upon  me — yea,  His  hand. 
And  not  His  rod — the  gentle  hand  that  I 
Felt  those  three  years,  so  often  pressed  in 

mine, 
In  friendship  such  as  passeth  woman's  love. 

"  I'm  old,  so  old  I     I  cannot  recollect 
The  faces  of  my  friends,  and  I  forget 
The  words  and  deeds  that  make  up  daily 

life; 
But    that  dear    face,    and   every   word    He 

spoke, 
Grow  more  distinct  as  others  fade  away  ; 
So  that  I  live  with  Him  and  holy  dead 
More  than  with  living. 

"Some  seventy  years  ago 
I  was  a  fisher  by  the  sacred  sea  ; 
It  was  at  sunset.     How  the  tranquil  tide 
Bathed    dreamily    the    pebbles '     How    the 

light 
Crept  up  the  distant  hills,  and  in  its  wake 
Soft    purjile    shadows    wrapped    the    dewy 

fields ; 
And  then  He  came  and  called  me  :  then   I 

gazed 
For  the  first  time  on  that  sweet  face.     Those 

eyes 
From  out  of  which,  as  from  a  window,  shone 
Divinity,  looked  on  my  inmost  soul. 
And  lighted  it  forever.     Then  His  words 
Broke  on  the  silence  of  my  heart,  and  made 
The  whole  world  musical.     Incarnate  Love 
Took  hold  of  me,   ;\nd   claimed   me  for  its 

own  ; 
I  followed  in  the  twilight,  holding  fast 
Ilifl  mantle. 

"  Oh  !   what  holy  walks  we  had 
Through  harvest  fields,  and   desolate,  dreary 

wastes; 
And  oftentimes  He  leaned  ujion  my  arm, 


Weary  and   wayworn.     I   was   young   and 

strong. 
And   so   upbore    Him.     Lord!     now   /  am 

weak. 
And  old,  and  feeble.     Let  me  rest  on  Thee  1 
So  put  Thine  arm  around  me  closer  still ! 
How  strong  Thou  art !     The  daylight  draws 

apace ; 
Come,  let  us  leave  these  noisy  streets,  and 

take 
The  path  to  Bethany  ;  for  Mary's  smile 
Awaits  us  at  the  gate,  and  J.Iartha's  hands 
Have  long  prepared    the   cheerful   evening 

meal ; 
Come,  James,  the  Master  waits,  and  Peter, 

see, 
Has  gone  some  steps  before. 

"  What  say  you,  friends? 
That  this  is  Ephesus,  and  Christ  has  gone 
Back  to  His  kingdom?     Ay,  'tis  so,  'tis  so. 
I  know  it  all  ;  and  yet,  just  now,  I  seemed 
To  stand  once  more  upon  my  native  hills. 
And  touch   my   Master.     O,   how  oft  I've 

seen 
The  touching  of  His   garments   bring  back 

strength 
To  palsied  limbs !     I  feel  it  has  to  mine. 
Up  !  bear  me  to  my  church  once  more, 
There  let  me  tell  them  of  a  Saviour's  love ; 
For  by  the  sweetness  of  my  Master's  voice 
Just  now,  I  think  He  must  be  very  near — 
Coming,    I   trust,   to   break   the  vail  which 

time 
Hath  worn  so  thin  that  I  can  see  beyond. 
And  watch  His  footsteps. 

"  So  raise  up  my  head ; 
How  dark  it  is  !     1  cannot  seem  to  see 
The  faces  of  my  flock.     Is  that  the  sea 
That  murmurs  so,  or  is  itweejiing!     Ilushf 
'My    little    children!     God    so    loved    the 

worlil 
He  gave  His  Son  ;  so  love  ye  one  another, 
Lovo  God  and  men.     Anion.'     Now  bear  me 

back  ; 
My  legacy  unto  an  angry  world  is  this. 
I  feel  my  work  is  finished.     Are  the  streets 

BO  full? 
Wliiit  call    tiie   flock   my   name  ?   the   Holj 

John  ? 


HE  KNOWS. 


577 


Nay,  write  me  rather,  Jesus  Christ's  beloved, 
And  lover  of  my  children. 

"  Lay  me  down 
Once  more  upon  my  couch,  and  open  wide 
The  eastern  window      See  !    there  comes  a 

light. 
Like  that  which  broke  upon  my  soul  at  e'en, 
When,  in  the  dreary  isle  of  Patmos,  Gabriel 

came, 
And  touched  me  on   the  shoulder.     See !  it 

grow.'!, 
As  when   we   mounted   towards  the  pearly 

gates  ; 
I  know  the  way  !     I  trod  it  once  before. 
And  hark  !  it  is  the  song  the  ransomed  sung, 
Of  glory  to  the  Lamb  !     IIow  loud  it  sounds  ; 
And  that  unwritten  one  !     Methinks  m}'  soul 


Can  join   it  now.     Bit  who   are  these  who 

crowd 
The    shining    way  ?      Say !    joy  !     'tis    the 

eleven! 
With  Peter  first ;  how  eagerly  he  looks  ! 
How  bright  the  smiles  are  beaming  on  James 

face! 
I  am  the  last.     Once  more  we  are  complete 
To  gather  round  the  Paschal  feast. 


I       "  My  place 

;  Is  next  my  Master — 0  !  my  Lord  !  my  Lord  I 
How  bright  Thou  art,  and  yet  the  very  same 
I  loved  in  Galilee  !     'Tis  worth  the  hundred 

years 
To  feel  this  bliss  !     So  lift  me  up,  dear  Lord, 

I  Unto  Thy  bosom.     There  shall  I  abide." 


HE  KNOWS. 


MARY  G.  BEAINARD. 


KNOW  not  what  will  befall  me  ! 

God  hangs  a  mist  o'er  my  eyes; 
And  o'er  each  step  of  my  onward  path 

He  makes  new  scenes  to  rise, 
And  eveiy  ']oj  He  sends  to  me 

Comes  as  a  sweet  and  glad  surprise. 

I  see  not  a  step  before  me, 

As  I  tread  the  days  of  the  year, 

But  the  past  is  still  in  God's  keeping. 
The  future  His  mercy  shall  clear, 

And  what  looks  dark  in  the  distance, 
May  brighten  as  I  draw  near. 

For  perhaps  the  dreaded  future 
Has  less  bitterness  than  I  think; 

The  Lord  may  sweeten  the  water 
Before  I  stoop  to  drink. 

Or,  if  Marah  must  be  Marali, 
He  will  stand  beside  its  brink. 

It  may  be  there  is  waiting 

For  the  coming  of  my  feet. 
Some  gift  of  such  rare  blessedness. 

Some  joy  so  strangely  sweet. 
39 


That  my  lips  can  only  tremble 
With  the  thanks  I  cannot  speak. 

0,  restful,  blissful  ignorance ! 

'Tis  blessed  not  to  know, 
It  keeps  me  quiet  in  those  arms 

Which  will  not  let  me  go. 
And  hushes  my  soul  to  rest 

On  the  bosom  which  loves  me  so. 

So  I  go  on  not  knowing  ! 

I  would  not  if  I  might ; 
I  would  rather  walk  on  in  the  dark  with 
God, 

Than  go  alone  in  the  light, 
I  would  rather  walk  with  Iiim  by  faith, 

Than  walk  alone  by  sight. 

My  heart  shrinks  back  from  trials 
VvTiich  the  future  may  disclose, 

Yet  I  never  had  a  sorrow 

But  what  the  dear  Lord  chose; 

So  I  send  the  coming  tears  back, 

With  the  whispered  wnnl  "  He  knows." 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 


o^fert  , 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


UR  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-  i  Methought   from  the   battle-field's  dreadful 


tf^,  cloud  had  lowered, 

lud  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch 

in  the  sky ; 
And    thousands   had    sunk    on    the 
ground  overpowered  -. 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 


array 
Far,  far,  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track  : 
'Twas  autumn,  and  sunshine  arose  on   the 

way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed 

me  back. 


Wh'in   rci-OHinK  thai  nit-'ht  on    my    I''"' <    "I'       '  llcw  fn  tli.'  plcasiint  Ip'M  ;,  travTHiMl    so  oft 


Htraw, 
By  the  wolf  soaring  fagot  that  guardod 
tlin  nlain, 
At  th<!  dead  of  the  niglil  a  wwi^et  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  <re  the  morning  I  dreamt  it 
again 


In  life'fl  morning  man-h  whin  my  bosom 
WiiH  young; 
I    beard    my    own    mouutain-goata  bloating 
aloft, 
A  lid  km-w  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn 
rcapors  sung. 


OLD  COACHING  DAYS. 


579 


Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I 

Stay,  stay  with  us  ! — rest ;  thou  art  weary 

swore 

and  worn ! 

From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier 

never  to  part ; 

to  stay ; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times 

But  sorrow  returned  with  tha  dawning  of 

o'er, 

morn, 

And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  full- 

And   the   voice    in    my    dreaming   sar 

ness  of  heart. 

melted  away. 

OLD  COACHING  DAYS. 


JOHN   POOLE. 


KETUE.NED  to  Reeves's  Hotel,  College  Green,  where  I  was  lodging. 
The  individual  who,  at  this  time,  so  ably  filled  the  important  office 
of  "  Boots  "  at  the  hotel  was  a  character.     Be  it  remembered  that, 
in  his  youth,  he  had  been  discharged  from  his  place  for  omitting  to 
call  a  gentleman,  who  was  to  go  by  one  of  the  morning  coaches,  and 
who,  in  consequence  of  such  neglect,  missed  his  journey. 
My  slumbers  were  fitful — disturbed.     Horrible  dreams  assailed  me. 
Series  of  watches  each  pointing  to  the  hour  of  four  passed  slowly  before 
me — then,  time-pieces — dials  of  larger  size — and  at  last,  enormous  steeple- 
clocks,  all  pointing  to  four,  four,  four. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream, 

and  endless  processions  of  vv^atchmen  moved  along,  each  mournfully  dinning 
in  my  ears,  "  Past  four  o'clock."  At  length  I  was  attacked  by  nightmare. 
Methought  I  was  an  hour-glass — old  Father  Time  bestrode  me — he 
pressed  upon  me  with  unendurable  weight — fearfully  and  threateningly 
did  he  wave  his  scythe  above  my  head — he  grinned  at  me,  struck  three 
blows,  audible  blows,  with  the  handle  of  his  scythe,  on  my  breast,  stooped 
his  huge  head,  and  shrieked  in  my  ear — 

"  Vor  o'clock,  zur  ;  I  zay  it  be  vore  o'clock." 

It  was  the  awful  voice  of  Boots. 

"Well,  I  hear  you,"  groaned  I. 

"But  I  doant  hear  you.     Vor  o'clock,  zur." 

"Very  well,  very  well,  that'll  do." 

"'  Beggin'  your  pardon,  but  it  woan't  do,  zur.  'Ee  must  get  up — pa«t 
Tore,  zur." 

And  he  thundered  away  at  the  door ;  nor  did  he  cease  knocking  till  I 


580  OLD  COACHING  DAYS. 


was  fairly  up,  and  had  shown  myself  to  him  in  order  to  satisfy  him  of  tha 
fact. 

"  That'll  do,  zur ;  'ee  told  I  to  carl'ee,  and  I  hope  I  ha'  carld'ee 
properZy." 

I  lit  my  taper  at  the  rushlight.  On  opening  a  window-shutter,  I  was 
regaled  with  the  sight  of  a  fog,  a  parallel  to  which  London  itself,  on  one 
of  its  most  perfect  November  days,  could  scarcely  have  produced.  A  dirty 
drizzHng  rain  was  falling.  My  heart  sank  within  me.  It  was  now  twenty 
minutes  past  four.  I  was  master  of  no  more  than  forty  disposable  minutes, 
and,  in  that  brief  space,  what  had  I  not  to  do !  The  duties  of  the  toilet 
were  indispensable — the  portmanteau  must  be  packed — and,  run  as  fast 
as  I  might,  I  could  not  get  to  the  coach-office  in  less  than  ten  minutes. 
Hot  water  was  a  luxury  not  to  be  procured;  at  that  villainous  hour  not  a 
human  being  in  the  house  (nor,  do  I  iirmly  believe,  in  the  universe  entire,) 
had  risen — my  unfortunate  self,  and  my  companion  in  wretchedness,  poor 
Boots,  excepted.  The-  water  in  the  jug  was  frozen  ;  but,  by  dint  of  ham- 
mering upon  it  with  the  handle  of  the  poker,  I  succeeded  in  enticing  out 
about  as  muclf^is  would  have  filled  a  tea-cup.  Two  towels,  which  had 
been  left  wet  in  the  room,  were  standing  on  a  chair,  bolt  upright,  as  stiff 
as  the  poker  itself,  which  you  might  almost  as  easily  have  bent.  The 
tooth-brushes  were  riveted  to  the  glass  in  which  I  had  left  them,  and  of 
K'hich,  (in  my  haste  to  disengage  them  from  their  stronghold,)  they  carried 
away  a  fragment ;  the  soap  was  cemented  to  the  dish  ;  my  shaving-brush 
was  a  mass  of  ice.  In  shape  more  appalling  discomfort  had  never  ap- 
peared on  earth.  I  approached  the  looking-glass.  Even  had  all  the 
materials  for  the  operation  been  tolerably  thawed,  it  was  impo.'^sible  to  use 
a  razor  l»y  such  a  light. 

"Who's  there?" 

"Now,  if  'co  please,  zur;  no  time  to  lose;  only  twenty-vivc  minutes 
to  vivo." 

I  lost  my  self-possession — T  have  often  wondered  f/iof  morning  di<l  not 
unsettle  my  mind. 

There  was  no  time  for  the  performance  of  anything  like  acomforiable 
toilet.  I  resolved,  therefore,  to  defer  it  altogether  till  the  coach  should 
stop  to  breakfast.  "  I'll  pack  my  portmanteau;  that  Tnusthc  dono."  //i 
went  whatever  happened  to  come  first  to  hand.  In  my  liastc,  I  had 
thrust  in,  amongst  my  own  things,  one  of  mine  host's  frozen  towels. 
Everything  must  come  out  again. 

"Who's  there?" 

"Now,  zur;    '<;(_;'l  bn  to<j  latr-,  zur." 


THE  PENNY  YE  MEANT  TO  GI'E.  581 

"  Coming  ! " 

Everything  was  now  gathered  together — the  portmanteau  would  not 
lock.     No  matter,  it  must  be  content  to  travel  to  town  in  a  deshahille  of 
straps.     Where  were  my  boots?     In  my  hurry  I  had  packed  away  bo tl 
pair.     It  was   impossible  to  travel  to  London  on  such  a  day  in  slippcr.s. 
Again  was  everything  to  be  undone. 

"Now,  zur.  coach  be  going." 

The  most  unplea-sant  part  of  the  ceremony  of  hanging  (scarcely  ex- 
cepting  the  closing  act)  must  be  the  hourly  notice  given  'to  the  culpiit  of 
the  exact  length  of  time  he  has  to  live.  Could  any  circumstance  have 
added  much  to  the  miseries  of  my  situation,  most  assuredly  it  would  have 
been  those  unfeeling  reminders. 

"I'm  coming,"  again  replied  I,  with  a  groan.  "  I  have  only  to  pull 
on  my  boots."  They  were  both  left-footed  !  Then  must  I  open  the  rascally 
portmanteau  again. 

"Please,  zur " 

"What  in  the  name  of  the— —do  you  want  now  ?  " 

"  Coach  be  gone,  please  zur." 

"Gone  !     Is  there  a  chance  of  my  overtaking  it  ?' 

"  Bless  'ee !  noa  zur ;  not  as  Jem  Piobbins  do  droive.  He  be  vive 
mile  off  by  now." 

"You  are  certain  of  that?" 

"  I  warrant'ee,  zur." 

At  this  assurance  I  felt  a  throb  of  joy,  which  was  almost  a  compensa- 
tion for  all  my  sufferings  past. 

"  Boots,"  said  I,  "  you  are  a  kind-hearted  creature,  and  I  will  give 
you  an  additional  half-crown.  Let  the  house  be  kept  perfectly  quiet,  and 
desire  the  chamber-maid  to  call  me " 

"  At  what  o'clock,  zur  ?  " 

"  This  day  three  months  at  the  earliest ! " 


''THE  PENNY  YE  MEANT  TO  GFE" 

gKl^TIERE'S  a  funny  tale  of  a  stingy  man,  |  When  the    sexton  came  with    his   begging 
^<jy^     Who  was  none  too  good,  but  might  plate, 

'^^atf  have  been  worse,  The  church  was  but  dim  with  the  candle's 

%'l  Who  went  to  his  church  on  a  Sun-  |  light ; 


day  night. 
And   carried   along  his  well  filled 
purse. 


The  stingy   man   fumbled    all    through    hil 
purse, 
And  chose  a  coin  by  touch,  and  not  sight 


582 


MY  PLAYMATE. 


It's  an  odd  thing,  now,  that  guineas  should 
be 
So  like  unto  pennies  in  shape  and  size. 
"  I'll  give  a  penny,"  the  stingy  man  said: 
"  The  poor  must  not  gifts  of  pennies  de- 
spise." 

The  penny  fell  down  with  a  clatter  and  ring! 

And  back  in  his  seat  leaned  the  stingy  man. 
"  The  world  is  so  full  of  the  poor,"  he  thought : 

"  I  can't  help  them  all — 1  give  what  I  can." 

Ha,  ha  !  how  tke  sexton  smiled,  to  be  sure, 
To  see  the  gold  guinea  fall  into  his  plate  ! 

Ha,    ha !    how  the  stingy  man's  heart  was 
wrung, 
Perceiving  his  blunder,  but  just  too  late  ! 

"No  matter,"  he  said:    "in  the  Lord's  ac- 
count 

That  guinea  of  gold  is  set  down  to  me. 
They  lend  to  liim  who  give  to  the  poor ; 

It  will  not  so  bad  an  investment  be." 


"  Na,  na,  mon,"  tlie  chuckling  sexton  cried 
out: 
"  The  Lord   is  na  cheated — He  kens  thet 
well ; 
He  knew  it  was  only  by  accident 

That  out  o'  thy  lingers  the  guinea  fell : 

"  He  keeps  an  account,   na  doubt,  for  the 
puir : 
But   in   that   account   He'll  set   down  to 
thee 
Na  mair  o'  that  golden  guinea,  my  mon. 
Than  the  one  bare  penny  ye  meant  to  gi'e !" 

There's  a  comfort,  too,  in  the  little  tale — 
A  serious  side  as  well  as  a  joke  ; 

A  comfort  for  all  the  generous  poor, 
In  the  comical  words  the  sexton  spoke ; 

A  comfort  to  think  that  the  good  Lord  know* 
How  generous  we  really  desire  to  be, 

And  will  give  us  credit  in  his  account 
For  all  the  pennies  we  long  "  to  gi'e." 


h-r-.-■^■^■'^.- 

MY  PLAYMATE. 


jjctforUi 


.rOIIN    <1.    WHITTIF.I'.. 


jHE  pines  were  dark  on  Uamolh  Hill, 
Tlieir  Hong  waH  soft  and  low  ; 
Th';  bloHHomH  in  the  Hwcot  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  bloHHoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
Tho  orcliard  birds  sang  clear  ; 
The  Hwef^tewt  and  the  Haddent  day 
It  seomcd  of  all  tho  year. 


For  more  to  me  than  bird.s  or  flowora. 

My  ])laymat(!  left  her  lionic, 
And  took  with  iier  tlic  laughing  H[)ring 

Tlio  iniisii-  and  the  )>liioiii. 

She  kissed  the  lijm  of  kith  iiiid  kin. 
She  laid  h<T  hand  in  mine  : 

What  more  <;ould  jvnk  tlie  baHJiful  boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine? 


SHIBBOLETH. 


58o 


She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May : 

The  constant  years  told  o'er 
Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 

But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years ; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  Spring 

And  reap  the  Autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow  ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jeweled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown, — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill. 
And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 

The  woods  of  FolhTnill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 

The  birds  build  in  the  tree, 
The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 

The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 


I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems, — 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice ; 

Does  she  remember  mine  ? 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 
For  other  eyes  than  ours, — 

That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 
And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

0  playmate  in  the  golden  time  ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green. 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  So  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow  ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea, — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee  ! 


SHIBBOLETH. 


Then  sAiii  tliey  unto  him  :  "  Say  now  Shibboleth ;"  and    he  said    Sibboleth.    They  took  him  and  slew  him  at  tba 
IMisssiges  of  Jordan  ;  and  there  fell  at  that  time  of  the  Ephraimites,  forty  and  two  thousand.     Judges  xii.  6. 


E.    H.    J.    CLEVELAND. 


|OWN  to  the  stream  they  flj'ing  go; 
Right  on  the  border  stand  the  foe, — 
Stand  the  foe,  and  this  threat  they 

make  : 
"  Shibboleth  say,  or  j'our  head  we'll 

take  I" 

Up  to  his  desk  the  good  man  goes, 
Down  in  the  pews  they  sit,  his  foes, — 
Sit  his  foes,  and  this  threat  they  make : 
"Shibboleth  say,  or  your  head  we'll  take! 
Say  :  Remember  the  Sabbath  day, 
In  it  ye  neither  shall  work  nor  play ; 
Say  it  commences  on  Saturday  night, — 


Just  about  early  candle-light  ■ 

Or,  to  make  it  a  little  surer  still, 

When  the  sun  goes  down  behind  th'-  hill ; 

And  if  the  sun  sets  at  half-past  four, 

Close  the  .shutters,  and  bar  the  door; 

Tell  the  strangers  your  gates  within 

That  to  do  otherwise  is  a  sin ; 

And  at  half-past  four  on  the  following  day. 

Take  out  your  knitting,  and  work  or  play- 

For  the  Lord  allows,  in  his  law  sublime, 

Twenty-four  hours  for  holy  time  ; 

Thus  you  must  speak  our  Shibboleth." 

Nothing  daunted,  the  good  man  saith; 


584 


SHIBBOLETH. 


"Ye  must  remember  the  Sabbath  day — 
In  it  ye  neither  shall  work  nor  play, 
Tell  the  strangers  your  gates  within 
That  to  do  otherwise  is  a  sin. 
But  at  twelve  o'clock  it  begins,  I'm  sure, 
Not  on  Saturday  at  half-past  four ! 
And  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night  it  ends — 
This  is  the  fourth  command,  my  friends." 

Down  sits  the  parson  in  his  seat, 

Up  rise  his  enemies  from  the  pit ; 

"  Off  with  his  head  !"  they  wrathful  say, 

"  How  he  abuses  our  Sabbath  day  !" 

Dp  comes  another  to  take  his  place. 

Heated  and  panting  from  the  chase. 

And  again  the  foe  their  menace  make : 

"  Shibboleth  say,  or  your  head  we'll  take ! 

Say  that  the  Lord  made  bond  and  free, 

Slavery's  an  evil,  not  sin  per  se; 

Slaves  there  have  been  from  the  first  man's 

fall. 
And  a  righteous  God  upholds  it  all. 
This  is  the  pass-word — spoak  it  plain." 

And  the  good  man  answers  back  again, 
'  I  know  that  the  Lord  made  bond  and  free 
All  of  one  blood — '  and  cursed  is  he,' 
Saith  a  righteous  God  in  his  holy  ire, 
'Who  useth  service  and  glveth  no  hire ! ' 

"  This  man  will  never  our  Shibboleth  say  !" 
Thus  cry  the  foe,  as  they  eager  lay 
Their  violent  hands  on  the  clerical  crown, 
"  He  is  not  one  of  us — hew  him  down  !" 

And  again  to  the  next  in  tlie  sacrf;d  desk. 
They  look  from  below   and   jtropound   this 

text: 
"Say  that  we  fell  in  Adam's  fall, 
And  that  in  Adam  we  sinned  all , 
Say  that  in  him  we  all  are  dead, 
Else  you'll  oblige  uh  to  take  your  head." 

A  moment  they  wait  to  hear  the  word, 
But  Hhout  afl  soon  afl  his  voice  is  heard, 
"  Oh,  hear  ye  now  what  this  rebel  saitli  ■* 
Sibbolelh  only — n')t  Shiblioh-th." 

Another  cry  in  the  stifled  air. 

Another  head  with  itH  gory  hair 

By  the  rolling  stream,  and  another  threat 


The  dire  assassins  are  making  yet : 

"  Shibboleth  say,  and  the  stream  shall  flov, 

Right  and  left  as  you  onward  go  ; 

Sibboleth  say,  and  your  head  shall  fall 

Right  in  the  pass,  as  fell  they  all. 

Say  that  our  sins  we  must  all  forsake — 

That  the  yoke  of  Christ  we  must  willing 

take ; 
Our  tongues  from  evil  we  mu.st  restrain, 
And  from  the  alluring  cup  abstain ; 
But  we  have  made  an  amendment  fair, 
And  due  allowance,  here  and  there. 
For  such  as  have  but  little  grace, — 
Every  one  understands  the  case ; 
We  who  are  young  in  grace  must  grow. 
But  still  in  the  ways  of  folly  go  ; 
We  must  have  our  pleasures,  and  perchance 
Amuse  ourselves  in  a  little  dance, 
And  we  who  are  somewhat  older  grown — 
Though  our  lips  are  the  Lord's  and  not  oui 

own, — 
Must  now  and  then  be  allowed  to  speak, 
Though  our  words  be  truly  not  over  meek  ; 
And  should  we  happen  to  speak  in  a  hurry, 
Why  surely  the  parson  needn't  worry, — 
Not  even  though  we  should  blast  his  fame, 
P'or  the   poor  church    members  are  not  to 

blame ; 
And  though  we  are  not  inclined  to  drink 
Of  the  sparkling  cup,  yet  we  surely  think 
It  will  never  answer  to  fully  put  down 
The  sale  of  the  article  in  our  town. 
These  things  we  willingly,  freely  tell. 
That  you  may  learn  our  Shibboleth  well. 
Thus  do  we  all  of  our  sins  forsake. 
And  the  yoke  of  Christ  thus  easy  take. 
For  hath  He  not  called  the  burden  light  f 
Shibboleth  say,  as  we  indite." 

But  "Be  y<'  holy,"  he  calmly  saith  ; 
"  Brethren,  this  is  my  Shibboleth." 

A  sudden  cry  and  a  sudden  gleam 

Of  a  glancing  sword  by  the  crimson  stream, 

And  "  Off  with  his  head  !"  they  vengeful  cry, 

"  Ho  is  an  Ephraimit<>, — let  him  die  ;" 

And  quick  dispatch  him  with  all  (hiir  itiighL, 

Just  as  another  one  comes  in  sigh  I. 

(Had  welcome  give  to  Ih''  m-xt  who  stands 

With  the  "  bread  of  life"  m  his  pioua  handa. 


SELLING  A  COAT. 


585 


In    his    pious    hands,    and    they    liear   him 

through, 
'  We  believe  it  all,  and  so  do  you  ; 
But  this  is  not  enough  to  say. 
Wo  must  have  it  said  in  a  particular  way — 
iSay  that  the  sinner  cant  repent 
Without  the  Spirit  is  on  him  sent ; 
To  the  small  word  cant,  have  a  due  regard, 
Else  things  will  be  apt  to  go  very  hard." 

But  the  good  man  says :  "  He  can,  but  won't; 
1  know  that  my  danger  is  imminent." 

And  they  quick  reply,  "  We're  sorry  to  make 
Such  a  very  small  word  as  this  to  take 
Your    head    from   your   shoulders, — thus, — 

entire, — 
But  you  have  incurred  our  holy  ire  ; 
The  meaning  of  both  is  the  same,  'tis  true, 


But  such  an  excuse  will  never  do  ; 
'Tis  a  very  important  word,  my  friend, 
You  will  please  to  perceive  you  are  neai 
your  end." 

Forty-two  thousand  fell  that  day, 
Forty-two  thousand  bodies  lay 
Of  the  Ephraimites,  in  the  narrow  way 
That  led  to  the  running  river. 

Forty-two  thousand  mort  will  fall, 
For  when  they  accept  tlie  "  unanimous  call" 
They  maybe  assuredtheyhavestaked  their  all 
By  the  theological  river. 

For  still  to  the  crossing  do  they  hie. 
And  still  the  "  Shibbolelii  "  eager  try, 
But  stop  in  the  narrow  pass  to  die, 
And  go  not  over  the  river. 


SELLING  A  COAT. 


^^P  STORY  is  told  of  a  clothing  merchant  on  Chatham  Street,  New 

SJS     York,  who  kept  a  very  open   store  and  drove  a  thriving  trade,  tha 

^'t"~^     natural  consequence  being  that  he  waxed  wealthy  and  indolent. 

I  He  finally  concluded  to  get  an  assistant  to  take  his  place  on  the 

1  sidewalk  to  "  run  in"  customers,  while  he  himself  would  enjoy  hia 

otium  eu7n  dig  v^'ith'm  the  store.     Having  advertised  for  a  suitable  clerk, 

he  awaited  applications,  determined  to  engage  none  but  a  good  talker  who 

would  be  sure  to  promote  his  interest. 

Several  unsuccessful  applicants  were  dismissed,  when  a  smart  looking 
Americanized  Jew  came  along  and  applied  for  the  situation.  The  "  boss" 
was  determined  not  to  engage  the  fellow  without  proof  of  his  thorough 
capability  and  sharpness.     Hence  the  following  dialogue: 

"  Look  here,  young  man  !  I  told  you  somedings.  I  vill  gone  up  de 
street  und  valk  me  back  past  dis  shop  yust  like  I  vas  coundrymans,  and  if 
you  can  make  me  buy  a  coat  of  you,  I  vill  hire  you  right  away  quick. " 

"  All  right,"  said  the  young  man,  "  go  ahead,  and  if  I  don't  sell  you  a 
coat  I  won't  ask  the  situation." 

The  proprietor  proceeded  a  short  diotance  up  the  street,  then  sauntered 
back  toward  the  shop,  where  the  young  man  was  on  the  alert  for  him. 

"  Hi !  look  here !  Don't  you  want  some  clothes  to-day  ?" 


686  SELLING  A  COAT. 


"  No,  I  don't  vant  me  nothing,"  returned  the  boss. 

"  But  step  inside  and  let  me  show  you  what  an  elegant  stock  we 
have,"  said  the  "  spider  to  the  fly,"  catching  him  by  the  arm,  and  forcing 
him  into  the  store. 

After  considerable  palaver,  the  clerk  expectant  got  down  a  coat,  on 
the  merits  of  which  he  expatiated  at  length,  and  finally  offered  it  to  "  the 
countryman"  at  thirty  dollars,  remarking  that  it  was  "  dirt  cheap." 

"  Dirty  tollar  ?  My  kracious  !  I  vouldn't  give  you  dwenty.  But  I 
don't  vant  de  coat  anyvays." 

"You  had  better  take  it,  my  friend;  you  don't  get  a  bargain  like  this 
every  day." 

"  No ;  I  don't  vant  it.     I  gone  me  out.     Good-day." 

"  Hold  on !  don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,"  answered  the  anxious  clerk. 
"  See  here,  now  the  boss  has  been  out  all  day,  and  I  haven't  sold  a  dollar's 
worth.  I  want  to  have  something  to  show  when  he  comes  back,  so  take 
the  coat  at  twenty-five  dollars  ;  that  is  just  what  it  cost.  I  don't  make  a 
cent  on  it ;  but  take  it  along." 

"  Young  mans,  don'd  I  told  you  three,  four,  couple  of  dimes  dat  I  don't 
vant  de  coat?" 

"  "Well,  take  it  at  twenty  dollars ;  I'll  lose  money  on  it,  but  I  want 
to  make  one  sale  anyhow,  before  the  boss  comes  in.  Take  it  at  twenty 
dollars." 

"  Veil,  I  don't  vant  de  coat,  but  I'll  give  you  fifteen  tollar,  and  not  one 
cent  more." 

"  Oh,  my  friend,  I  couldn't  do  it!  Why,  the  coat  cost  twenty-five; 
yet  sooner  than  not  make  a  sale,  I'll  let  you  have  it  for  eighteen  dollars, 
and  stand  the  loss." 

"No;  I  don't  vant  it  anyvays.  It  ain't  viirtli  no  more  as  fifteen 
tollai',  but  I  vouldn't  give  a  cent  more,  so  help  me  kracious." 

Hero  the  counterfeit  rustic  turned  to  depart,  pleased  to  tliink  that  ho 
had  got  the  best  of  the  young  clerk  ;  but  that  individual  was  equal  to  the 
emergency.  Knowing  that  he  must  sell  the  garment  to  secure  his  place, 
he  Bcized  the  [tarting  boss,  saying  : 

"  Well,  I'll  toll  you  how  it  is.  The  man  who  koej)S  this  store  is  an 
uncle  of  mine,  and  as  he  is  a  mean  old  cuss,  I  want  to  bust  him.  Here, 
tiike  the  coat  at  fifteen  dollars." 

This  settled  the  business.  The  proprietor  saw  that  this  was  too  valu- 
able a  salesman  to  let  slip,  and  so  engagcjd  him  at  once  ;  and  he  may  be 
Been  every  day  standing  in  front  of  the  shop,  urging  innocent  countrymen 
to  buy  clothes  which  are  "  yu.st  do  fit,"  at  sacrificial  pric(3S. 


THE  MYSTIC  WEAVER. 


587 


A   WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA. 


ALLAN   CUNNINGHAM. 


d^lpS  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, — 
^^^S       A  wind  that  follows  fast, 

rAnd  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast, — 
3^  And   bends   the  gallant    mast,  my 

5  boys, 

\  While,  like  the  eagle  free. 

Away   the  good   ship  flies,   and 
leaves 
Old  England  on  the  lee. 

0  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind  ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snorting  breeze 


And  white  waves  heaving  high — 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boy* 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free  ; 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  you  cloud  ; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud, — 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free ; 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  ia. 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 


THE  MYSTIC  WEA  VER. 


ALMLY  see  the  Mystic  Weaver, 
Throw  his  shuttle  to  and  fro  ; 
'Mid  the  noise  and  wild  confusion, 
Well  the  weaver  seems  to  know 
What  each  motion 
And  commotion, 
What  each  fusion 
And  confusion, 
In  the  grand  result  will  show, 
As  the  nations, 


Kings  and  stations. 
Upward,  Downward, 
Hither,  thither, 
As  in  mystic  dances,  go. 

In  the  present  all  is  mystery , 
In  the  past  'tis  beauteous  history. 
O'er  the  mixing  and  the  mingling, 
How  the  signal  bells  are  jingling  ? 
See  you  not  the  weaver  leaving 


588 


THE  NEW  CHURCH  ORGAN. 


Finished  work  behind,  in  weaving  ? 
See  you  not  the  reason  subtle, 
As  the  web  and  woof  diminish, 
Changing  into  beauteous  finish, 
Why  the  Weaver  makes  his  shuttle, 
Hither,  thither,  scud  and  scuttle  ? 

Glorious  wonder !  what  a  weaving ! 
To  the  dull  beyond  believing ! 
Such,  no  fabled  ages  know. 
Only  faith  can  see  the  mystery. 
How,  along  the  aisles  of  History 
Where  the  feet  of  sages  go, 
Loveliest  to  the  purest  eyes, 
Grand  the  mystic  tapet  lies ! 
Soft  and  smooth,  and  even  spreading 
As  if  made  for  angel's  treading  ; 
Tufted  circles  touchihg  ever, 


In-wrought  figures  fading  never  ; 
Every  figure  has  its  plaidings, 
Brighter  form  and  softer  shadings 
Each  illumined, — what  a  riddle  ! 
From  a  Cross  that  gems  the  middle. 

Tis  a  saying  ; — some  reject  it, 
That  its  light  is  all  reflected ; 
That  the  tapet's  hues  are  given 
By  a  Sun  that  shines  in  Heaven ! 
'Tis  believed,  by  all  believing. 
That  great  God  himself  is  weaving — 
Bringing  out  the  world's  dark  mystery, 
•In  the  light  of  Truth  and  History  ; 
And  as  web  and  woof  diminish, 
Comes  the  grand  and  glorious  finish ; 
When  begin  the  golden  ages 
Long  foretold  by  seers  and  sages. 


THE  NEW  CHURCH  ORGAN. 


WILL.   M.   CARLETON. 


IhEY'VE  got  a  bran  new  organ,  Sue, 
For  all  their  fuss  and  search  ; 
They've  done  just  as  they  said  they'd 
do. 
.\nd  fetched  it  into  church. 

J       They're  bound  the  critter  shall  be  seen. 
And  on  the  preacher's  right. 
They've  hoisted  up  their  new  machine 

In  everybody's  sight. 
They've  got  a  chorister  and  choir, 

Ag'n  my  voice  and  vote ; 
For  it  was  never  my  desire. 

To  praise  the  Lord  by  note ! 

I've  been  a  sister  good  an'  true, 

For  five  and  thirty  year; 
I've  done  what  seemed  my  part  to  do, 

An'  prayed  my  duty  clear; 
I've  Hun^  ihf!  hymns  both  slow  and  quick, 

.Iimt  as  the  jirearhor  read  ; 
And  twiie,  when  Deacon  Ttibbs  was  sick, 

I  look  tlie  fork  an'  l<-d  ' 
^nd  now  their  bold,  n'^w-fangled  ways 

Is  comin'  all  about : 


And  I,  right  in  my  latter  days, 
Am  fairly  crowded  out! 

To-day,  the  preacher,  good  old  dear, 

Witli  tears  all  in  his  eyes, 
Read — "  I  can  read  my  title  clear 

To  mansions  in  the  skies," — 
I  al'ays  liked  that  blessed  liymn— 

I  s'pose  I  al'ays  will ; 
It  somehow  gratifies  my  whim. 

In  good  old  "  Ortonville  ;" 
But  when  that  choir  got  up  to  sing, 

I  couldn't  cat<:h  a  word ; 
They  sung  the  most  dog-gonedest  thing, 

A  body  ever  heard  ! 

Some  worMly  chaps  was  standm'  near 

And  when  I  seed  them  grin, 
I  bid  farewell  to  every  fear. 

And  boldly  waded  in. 
I  thought  I'd  chaso  their  tune  along, 

An'  tried  witli  all  my  might; 
But  thougli  my  voice  is  good  an'  strong 

I  couhin't  steer  it  right ; 
When  they  was  high,  then  I  was  low, 

An'  also  contra'wiso ; 


A  GERMAN  TRUST  SONG. 


689 


And  I  too  fast,  or  they  too  slow, 
To  "  mansions  in  the  skies." 

An'  after  every  verse,  you  know 

They  played  a  little  tune  ; 
I  didn't  understand,  an'  so 

I  started  in  too  soon. 
I  pitched  it  pretty  middlin'  high, 

I  fetched  a  lusty  tone, 
But  oh,  alas  !  I  found  that  I 

Was  singing  there  alone  ! 
They  laughed  a  little,  I  am  told, 

But  I  had  done  my  best : 
And  not  a  wave  of  trouble  rolled 

Across  my  peaceful  breast. 

And  sister  Brown — I  could  but  look — 

She  sits  right  front  of  me  ; 
She  never  was  no  singin'  book, 

An'  never  meant  to  be  ; 
But  then  she  al'ays  tried  to  do 

The  best  she  could,  she  said  ; 
She  understood  the  time  right  through. 

An'  kep'  it  with  her  head ; 
But  when  she  tried  this  mornin',  oh, 

I  had  to  laugh,  or  cough — 
It  kep'  her  head  a  bobbin'  so, 

It  e'en  a'  most  came  off ! 


An'  Deacon  Tubbs, — he  all  broke  down, 

As  one  might  well  suppose, 
He  took  one  look  at  sister  Brown, 

And  meekly  ^ratched  his  nose. 
He    looked    his   hymn    book    through   and 
through 

And  laid  it  on  the  seat. 
And  then  a  pensive  sigh  he  drew, 

And  looked  completely  beat. 
An'  when  they  took  another  bout. 

He  didn't  even  rise. 
But  drawed  his  red  bandanner  out. 

An'  wiped  his  weepin'  eyes. 


I've  been  a  sister  good  an'  true. 

For  five  an'  thirty  year ; 
I've  done  what  seemed  my  part  to  do, 

And  prayed  my  duty  clear ; 
But  death  will  stop  my  voice,  I  know. 

For  he  is  on  my  track  ; 
And  some  day,  I  to  church  will  go 

And  never  more  come  back. 
And  when  the  folks  get  up  to  sing — 

Whene'er  that  time  shall  be — 
I  do  not  want  no  patent  thing 

A  squealin'  over  me  ! 


A  GERMAN  TRUST  SONG. 


LAMPERTIUS,  1625. 


UST  as  God  leads  me  I  would  go ; 

I  would  not  ask  to  choose  my 
way; 
Content  with  what  He  will  bestow. 
Assured  He  will  not  let  me  stray. 
So    as   He   leads,  my  path   I 
make. 

And  step  by  step  I  gladly  take. 
A  child  in  Him  confiding. 


Just  as  God  leads,  I  am  content ; 

I  rest  me  calmly  in  His  hands; 
That  which  He  hath  decreed  and  sent — 

That  which  His  will  for  me  commands, 
X  would  that  He  should  all  fulfil 


That  I  should  do  His  gracious  will 
In  living  or  in  dying. 

Just  as  God  leads,  I  all  resign  ; 

I  trust  me  to  my  Father's  will ; 
When  reason's  rays  deceptive  shine, 
His  counsel  would  I  yet  fulfill ; 
That  which    His  love    ordained    as 

right. 
Before  He  brought  me  to  the  light, 
My  all  to  Him  resigning. 

Just  as  God  leads  me,  I  abide 

In  faith,  in  hope,  in  suffering,  true; 

His  strength  is  ever  by  my  side — 

Can  aught  my  hold  on  Him  undo  ? 


590 


MAKING  LOVE  IN  A  BALLOON. 


I  hold  me  firm  in  patience,  knowing     ^  Oft  amid  thorns  and  briars  keen ; 

That  God  my  life  is  still  bestowing —       God  does  not  yet  His  guidance  show — 

But  in  the  end  it  shall  be  seen 
How  by  a  loving  Father's  will, 
Faithful  and  true  He  leads  me  still. 


The  best  in  kindness  sending, 
Jnst  as  God  leads,  I  onward  go, 


MOUNTAIN  AND  SQUIRREL. 


11.    W.    EMERSON. 


f¥;fi]^HE  mountain  and  the  squirrel 


'MM    Ha^d  a  quarrel ; 
H^^eV  And  the  former 


called   the 
d/ ij  •■  Little  Prig." 

Bun  replied : 
"  You  are  doubtless  very  big  ; 
But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 
Must  be  taken  in  together, 
To  make  up  a  year 
And  a  sphere. 


latter 


And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 

To  occupy  my  place. 

If  I'm  not  so  large  as  you, 

you  are  not  so  small  as  I, 

And  not  half  so  spry. 

I'll  not  deny  you  make 

A  very  pretty  squirrel  track  ; 

Talents  difl'er;  all  is  well  and  wisely  pat; 

If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 

Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 


MAKING  LOVE  IN  A  BALLOON 


LITCHFIELD    MOSELEY. 


ViVHERE  was  to  be  a  balloon  ascent  from  the  lawn,  and  Fanny  had 
srArr^  toi'mcnted  her  father  into  letting  her  ascend  with  the  aeronaut.  I  iu- 
^''^^  stantly  took  my  plans ;  bribed  the  aeronaut  to  plead  illness  at  the 
moment  when  the  machine  should  have  risen ;  learned  from  him  the 
management  of  the  balloon,  though  I  understood  that  pretty  well 
before,  and  calmly  awaited  the  result.  The  day  came.  The  weather  was 
fine.  The  balloon  was  inflated.  Fanny  wj??  in  the  car.  Everything  was 
ready,  when  the  aeronaut  suddfiuly  fainted.  He  was  carried  into  the 
house,  and  Sir  George  accom[)ani<'d  him.     Fanny  was  in  despair. 

"Am  I  to  lose  my  air  expedition?"  she  exclaimed,  looking  ovcu'  the 
side  of  the  car ;  ".some  one  understands  the  management  of  this  thing, 
«*urcly?  Nobody!  Tom!"  .she  called  out  to  mo,  "you  understand  it, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"Perfectly,"  I  answenjd. 

"Come  along,  then,"  she  cried;  "  be  quick,  before  [iai)a  cume.s  back." 


MAKING  LOVE  IN  A  BALLOON. 


691 


The  company  in  general  endeavored  to  dissuade  her  from  her  project, 
but  of  course  in  vain.     After  a  decent  show  of  hesitation,  I  chmbed  into 
the  car.     The  balloon  was  cast  off,  and  rapidly  sailed  heavenward.     There 
was  scarcely  a  breath  of  wind,  and  we  rose 
almost   straight   up.     We   rose   above   the 
house,  and  she  laughed    and   said,   "  How 
jolly  !  " 

We  were  higher  than  the  highest  trees, 
and  she  smiled,  and  said  it  was  very  kind 
of  me  to  come  with  her.  We  were  so  high 
that  the  people  below  looked  mere  specks, 
and  she  hoped  that  I  thoroughly  understood 
the  management  of  the  balloon.  Now  was 
my  time. 

'^I  understand  the  going  up  part,"  I  an- 
swered; ''to  come  down  is  not  so  easy," 
and  I  whistled. 

"  What  do  you  mean,"  she  cried. 
"  Why,  when  you  want  to  go  up  faster, 
you  throw  some  sand  overboard,"  I  replied, 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word. 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Tom,"  she  said,  trying  to  appear  quite  calm  and 
indifferent,  but  trembling  uncommonly. 

"Foolish !  "  I  said;  "  oh  dear,  no,  but  whether  I  go  along  the  ground 
or  up  in  the  air  I  like  to  go  the  pace,  and  so  do  you,  Fanny,  I  know.  Go 
it,  you  cripples  !  "  ;ind  over  went  another  sand-bag. 

"  Why,  you're  mad,  surely,"  she  whispered  in  utter  terror,  and  tried 
to  reach  the  bags,  Init  I  kept  her  back. 

''  Only  with  love,  my  dear,"  I  answered,  smihng  pleasantly ;  "  only 
with  love  for  you.     Oh,  Fanny,  I  adore  you  !     Say  you  will  be  my  wife." 

"  Never  !  "  she  answered  ;  "  I'll  go  to  Ursa  Major  first,  though  I've 
^t  a  big  enough  bear  here,  in  all  conscience." 

She  looked  so  pretty  that  I  was  almost  inclined  to  let  her  off.  (I  was 
only  trying  to  frighten  her,  of  course  I  knew  how  high  we  could  go  safely, 
well  enough,  and  how  valuable  the  life  of  Jenkins  was  to  his  country,)  but 
resolution  is  one  of  the  strong  points  of  my  character,  and  when  I've 
begun  a  thing  I  like  to  carry  it  through  ;  so  I  threw  over  another  sand- 
bag, and  whistled  the  Dead  !March  in  Saul. 

"  Come,  Mr.  Jenkins,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  come,  Tom,  let  us  descend 
now,  and  I'll  promise  to  say  notliing  whatever  about  all  this." 


592  MAKING  LOVE  IN  A  BALLOON. 

I  continued  the  execution  of  the  Dead  March. 

"  But  if  you  do  not  begin  the  descent  at  once  I'll  tell  papa  the  moment  1 
set  foot  on  the  ground." 

I  laughed,  seized  another  bag,  and  looking  steadily  at  her  said : 
"Will  you  promise  to  give  me  your  hand  ?  " 

"I've  answered  you  already,"  was  the  reply. 

Over  went  the  sand,  and  the  solemn  notes  of  the  Dead  March  re- 
sounded through  the  car. 

"  I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman,"  said  Fanny  rising  up  in  a  terrible 
rage  from  the  bottom  of  the  car,  where  she  had  been  sitting,  and  looking 
perfectly  beautiful  in  her  wrath.  "  I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman,  but 
I  find  I  was  mistaken.  Why,  a  chimney-sweeper  would  not  treat  a  lady 
in  such  a  way.  Do  you  know  that  you  arc  risking  your  own  life  as  well 
as  mine  by  your  madness  ?  " 

I  explained  that  I  adored  her  so  much  that  to  die  in  her  company 
would  be  perfect  bliss,  so  that  I  begged  she  would  not  consider  my  feelings 
at  all.  She  dashed  oflf  her  beautiful  hair  from  her  face,  and  standing  per- 
fectly erect,  looking  like  the  Goddess  of  Anger  or  Boadicea — if  you  can 
imagine  that  personage  in  a  balloon — she  said,  "  I  command  you  to  begin 
the  descent  this  instant  !  " 

The  Dead  March,  whistled  in  a  manner  essentially  gay  and  lively, 
wag  the  only  response.  After  a  few  minutes'  silence  I  took  up  another 
bag,  and  said : 

"  We  are  getting  rather  high ;  if  you  do  not  decide  soon  we  shall  have 
Mercury  coming  to  tell  us  that  we  are  trespassing — will  you  promise  me 
your  hand  ?  " 

She  sat  in  sulky  silence  in  the  bottom  of  the  car.  I  threw  over  the 
sand.  Then  she  tried  another  plan.  Throwing  herself  upon  her  knees, 
and  bursting  into  tears,  she  said : 

"  Oh,  forgive  me  for  my  slight  the  other  day.  It  was  very  wrong, 
and  I  am  veiy  sorry.     Take  me  home,  and  I  will  bo  a  sister  to  you." 

"Not  a  wife?"  said  I. 

"  I  can't!  I  can't !  "  she  answered. 

Over  went  the  fourth  bag,  and  I  began  to  think  she  would  beat  me 
after  all,  for  I  did  not  like  the  idea  of  going  much  higher.  I  would  not  give 
in  just  yet,  however.  I  whistled  for  a  few  moments,  to  give  her  time  for 
reflection,  and  then  said  :  "  Fanny,  they  say  that  marriages  are  made  in 
heaven — if  you  do  not  take  care,  ours  will  be  solemnizt'd  there." 

I  took  up  the  fifth  bag.  "Come,"  I  said,  "my  wife  in  life,  or  my 
companion  in  death.     Which  is  it  to  b<;?"  and  I  patted  the  sand-bag  ic 


THE  BELLS. 


593 


a  cheerful  manner.  She  held  her  face  in  her  hands,  but  did  not  answer. 
I  nursed  the  bag  in  my  arms,  as  if  it  had  been  a  baby. 

"Come,  Fanny,  give  me  your  promise."  I  could  hear  her  sobs.  I'm 
the  softest-hearted  creature  breathing,  and  would  not  pain  any  living 
thing,  and  I  confess  she  had  beaten  me.  I  was  on  the  point  of  flinging  the 
bag  back  into  the  car,  and  saying,  "  Dearest  Fanny,  forgive  me  for  fright- 
ening you.  Marry  whomsoever  you  wish.  Give  your  lovely  hand  to  the 
lowest  groom  in  your  stables — endow  with  your  priceless  beauty  the  chief 
of  the  Panki-wanki  Indians.  Whatever  happens,  Jenkins  is  your  slave — 
your  dog — your  footstool.  His  duty,  henceforth,  is  to  go  whithersoever 
you  shall  order,  to  do  whatever  you  shall  command."  I  was  just  on  the 
point  of  saying  this,  I  repeat,  when  Fanny  suddenly  looked  up,  and  said, 
with  a  queerish  expression  upon  her  face  : 

"  You  need  not  throw  that  last  bag  over.  I  promise  to  give  you  my 
hand."( 

"With  all  your  heart  ?"  I  asked,  quickly. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  she,  with  the  same  strange  look. 

I  tossed  the  bag  into  the  bottom  of  the  car,  and  opened  the  valve. 
The  balloon  descended.  Gentlemen,  will  you  believe  it  ? — when  we  had 
reached  the  ground,  and  the  balloon  had  been  given  over  to  its  recovered 
master,  when  I  had  helped  Fanny  tenderly  to  the  earth,  and  turned  to- 
wards her  to  receive  anew  the  promise  of  her  hand — will  you  believe  it  ? — 
she  gave  me  a  box  on  the  ear  that  upset  me  against  the  car,  and  running 
to  her  father,  who  at  that  moment  came  up,  she  related  to  him  and  the 
assembled  company  what  she  called  my  disgraceful  conduct  in  the  balloon, 
and  ended  by  informing  me  that  all  of  her  hand  that  I  was  likely  to  get 
had  been  already  bestowed  upon  my  ear,  which  she  assured  me  had  been 
given  with  all  her  heart. 


THE  BELLS. 


EDGAR   A.   POE. 


U|EAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells- 


Silver  bells : 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their 
melody  foretells ! 
How  they  tinklo,  tinkle,  tinkle, 
In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
40 


With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 
To  the  tintinnabulation   that   so    musically 
wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells - 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bellfl. 


694 


THE  BELLS. 


Hear  the  mellow  wedding  belle — 
Golden  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony 
foretells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 
And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she 
gloats 
On  the  moon ! 
Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  future !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells  1 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 
Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency 
tells  ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  afiright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak. 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune. 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the 

fire. 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and 
frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher. 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor, 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  Hide  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh.  the  l)r.lls,  bells,  bolls ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair' 
How  they  iliing,  and  clash,  and  roar! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  tlio  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  I 
Vet  the  oar,  it  fully  knows. 


By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flowa ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling. 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  angei 
of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 
Iron  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  mon- 
ody compels ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night. 
How  we  shiver  with  affright. 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tonel 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throata 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  mufiled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 
On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

A  pjEan  from  the  bells ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  pa3an  of  the  bells  I 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  pa'an  of  the  bella — 
Of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bellfl — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  beila; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 


THE  HERMIT. 


595 


As  he  knells,  knells,  knells. 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 


To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells- 
Bells,  bells,  bells, 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


THE  HERMIT. 


JAMES    BEATTIE. 


f  T  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  ham- 
let is  still. 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetful- 
ness  prove, 
When    naught    but   the    torrent    is 
heard  on  the  hill. 


And  naught  but  the  nightingale's  song  in 
the  grove, 
'Twas  thus  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 
While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a  her- 
mit began  ; 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war, 
He  thought  as  a  sage,  though  he  felt  as  a 
man  : 

'  Ah  !  why,  all  abandoned  to  darkness  and 
wo«. 


Why,   lone    Philomela,   that    languishing 
fall? 
For   spring   shall    return,    and    a   lover   be- 
stow, 
And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  inthrall. 
But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay,^ 
Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  rnan 
calls  thee  to  mourn  ; 
0,  soothe  him  whose  pleasures  like 
tliine  pass  away  ! 
Full  quickly  they  pass — but  they 
never  return. 

"  Now  gliding  remote  on  the  verge 
of  the  sky, 
The  moon,  half  extinguished,  her 
crescent  displays ; 
But  lately  I  marked  when  majestic 
on  high 
She  shone,  and   the  planets  were 
lost  in  her  blaze. 
Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  glad- 
ness pursue 
The   path   that  conducts   thee   to 
splendor  again  ! 
But  man's  faded   glory  what  change  shall 
renew  ? 
Ah,  fool  I  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain  ! 

"  'Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no 
more. 
I  mourn, — but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not 
for  you  ; 

For  morn  is  approaching  your  charms  to  re- 
store. 


596 


MRS.  LOFTY  AND  I. 


Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glit- 
tering with  dew. 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn, — 
Kind  nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save  : 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering 
urn? 
O,  when  shall  day  dawn  on  the  night  of 
the  grave  ? 

"  'Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science 
betrayed, 
That  leads    to   bewilder,    and   dazzles   to 
blind, 
My  thoughts  wont  to  roam  from  shade  on- 
ward to  shade. 
Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 
'  0  pity,  great  Father  of  light,'  then  I  cried, 
'  Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander 
from  thee  ! 


Lo,   humbled   in   dust,    I   relinquished    my 
pride ; 
From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only 
canst  free.'  " 

"  And   darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying 
away ; 
No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn. 
So  breaks  on  the  traveler,  faint  and  astray, 
The  bright   and  the  balmy  effulgence   ot 
morn. 
See  truth,  love,  and   mercy  in   triumph  de- 
scending. 
And   nature   all   glowing  in    Eden's    first 
bloom ! 
On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and  roses 
are  blending. 
And  beauty   immortal   awakes  from    tlie 
tomb." 


WINTER  SONG. 


LUDWIG  HOLTY. 


Translated  from  the  German  by  Charles  T.  Brooks. 


bL'MMER  joys  are  o'er; 

Flowrets  bloom  no  more, 
Wintry  winds  are  sweeping ; 
Til  rough  the  snow-drifts  peeping, 

Cheerful  evergreen 

Rarely  now  is  seen. 

Now  no  plumed  throng 
Charms  the  wood  with  song ; 
Ice-bound  trees  are  glittering ; 


Merry  snow-birds  twittering, 
Fondly  strive  to  cheer 
Scenes  so  cold  and  drear. 

Winter,  still  I  see 
Many  charms  in  thee, — 
Love  thy  chilly  greeting. 
Snow-storms  fiercely  beating, 
And  the  dear  deliglits 
Of  the  long,  long  nights. 


MRS.  LOFTY  AND  I. 


I,<  )FTY  keeps  a  carriage, 
So  do  I ; 

1^<^    I^lie  lias  dapple  grays  to  draw  it, 
n;  None  have  I  ; 

She's  no  prouder  with  her  coachman 

Than  am  I 
Willi  my  blue-eyed  laughing  baby 
Trundling  by  ; 


I  hide  his  face,  lest  she  should  see 
The  cherub  ])oy,  and  envy  mo. 

Her  fiiif  husband  has  white  finger.'', 

Mine  has  not 

He  could  give  his  bri<li'  a  palace, 

Mine  a  cot; 


'Ice-bound  trees  are  glitterin<j 
Merrv  snow-bird?  twittpr-na 


Fondly  strive  to  cheer 
Scenes  so  cold  and  drear." 


OUR  SKATER  BELLE. 


597 


Her's  comes  beneath  the  star-light, 

For  I  have  love,  and  she  has  gold  ; 

Ne'er  cares  ahe: 

She  counts  her    wealth,    mine    can't    be 

Mine  comes  in  the  purple  twilight, 

told. 

Kisses  me. 

And  prays  that  He  who  turns  life's  sands, 
Will  hold  his  lov'd  onos  in  His  hands. 

Mrs.  Lofty  has  her  jewels, 

Ho  have  I ; 
She  wears  her's  upon  her  bosom. 

She  has  those  that  love  her  station, 

None  have  1  ; 

But  I've  one  true  heart  beside  me. 

Glad  am  I ; 

I'd  not  change  it  for  a  kingdom. 

Inside  I ; 
She  will  leave  her's  at  death's  portals. 

By  and  by : 
I  shall  bear  the  treasure  with  me, 

No  not  I ; 
God  will  weigh  it  in  his  balance, 

By  and  by ; 
And  then  the  diff'rence  't  will  defiae 

When  I  die ; 

'Twixt  Mrs.  Lofty's  wealth  and  mine. 

CLEON  AND  I. 

MACKAY. 


CHARLES 


jLEON  hath  a  million  acres — ne'er  a  one 
H  have  I ; 

Cleon  dwelleth  in  a  palace — in  a  cot- 
tage, I ; 
Cleon  hath  a  dozen  fortunes — not  a 

penny, I ; 
But  the  poorer  of  the  twain  is  Cleon, 
and  not  I. 

Cleon,  true,  possesseth  acres — but  the  land- 
scape, I ; 

Half  the  charms  to  me  it  yieldeth,  money 
cannot  buy  ; 

Cleon  harbors  sloth  and  dullness — freshening 
vigor,  I ; 

He  in  velvet,  I  in  fustian  ;  richer  man  am  I. 


Cleon  is  a  slave  to  grandeur — free  as  thought 
am  I ; 

Cleon  fees  a  score  of  doctors — need  of  none 
have  I. 

Wealth-surrounded,  care-environed,  Cleou 
fears  to  die  ; 

Death  may  come — he'll  find  me  ready — hap- 
pier man  am  I. 

Cleon  sees  no  charm  in  nature — in  a  daisy,  I ; 

Cleon  hears  no  anthem  ringing  in  the  sea 
and  sky. 

Nature  sings  to  me  forever — earnest  listen- 
er, I; 

State  for  state,  with  all  attendants,  who 
would  change?     Not  I. 


OUR  SKATER  BELLE. 


rc 


.ONG  the  frozen  lake  she  comes 
In    linking    crescents,  light  and 
fleet; 
The  ice-imprisoned  Undine  hums 
A  welcome  to  her  little  feet. 


I  see  the  jaunty  hat,  the  plume 

Swerve  bird-like  in  the  joyous  gale, — 


The  cheeks  lit  up  to  burning  bloom, 

The  young  eyes  sparkling  through  ♦.he  veil 

The  quick  breath  parts  her  laughing  lips. 
The   white   neck    shines   through    tossing 
curls ; 

Her  vesture  gently  sways  and  dips. 
As  on  she  speeds  in  shell-like  whorls. 


gfjg  DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN. 


Men  stop  and  smile  to  see  her  go  ;  ■   She  guesses  not  the  benison 


They  gaze,  they  smile  in  pleased  surprise  ; 
They  ask  her  name,  they  long  to  show 
Some  silent  friendship  in  their  eyes. 

She  glances  not ;  she  passes  on  ; 
Her  stately  footfall  quicker  rings ; 


Whicn  follows  her  on  noiseless  wings. 

Smooth  be  her  ways,  secure  her  tread 
Along  the  devious  lines  of  life, 

From  grace  to  grace  successive  led, — 
A  noble  maiden,  nobler  wife ! 


ADVICE  TO  YOUNG  JilEJf. 


NOAH    PORTER. 


OUNG  men,  you  are  the  architects  of  your  own  fortunes.  Eely 
upon  your  own  strength  of  body  and  soul.  Take  for  your  star  self- 
'^'"^  rehauce,  faith,  honesty,  and  industry.  Inscribe  on  your  banner, 
«.  "  Luck  is  a  fool,  pluck  is  a  hero."     Don't  take  too  much  advice — 

keep  at  your  helm  and  steer  your  own  ship,  and  remember  that 
the  great  art  of  commanding  is  to  take  a  fair  share  of  the  work.. 
Don't  practice  too  much  humanity.  Think  well  of  yourself.  Strike  out. 
Assume  your  own  position.  Put  potatoes  in  your  cart,  over  a  rough  road, 
and  small  ones  go  to  the  bottom.  Rise  above  the  envious  and  jealous. 
Fire  above  the  mark  you  intend  to  hit.  Energy,  invincible,  determination, 
with  a  right  motive,  are  the  levers  that  move  the  world.  Don't  drink. 
Don't  chew.  Don't  smoke.  Don't  swear.  Don't  deceive.  Don't  read 
novels.  Don't  marry  until  you  can  support  a  wife.  Be  in  earnest.  Be 
self-reliant.  Be  generous.  Be  civil.  Read  the  papers.  Advertise  your 
business.  Make  money  and  do  good  with  it.  Love  your  God  nnd  fellow  men. 
Love  truth  and  virtue.  Love  your  country,  and  olx^y  its  laws.  If  this 
advice  be  implicitly  followed  by  the  young  men  of  the  country,  the  mil- 
lennium is  at  hand. 


DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN. 


HENRY   WARD   BEECHER. 


''irO  shall  recount  our  martyr's  sufferings  lor  this  people  since  No- 
vember, LSGO?  Ilis  horizon  had  been  Itlack  with  storm  by  day 
and  l>y  night;  he  has  trod  the  way  of  danger  and  of  darkness; 
on  his  shoulders  rested  a  governincnt  dearer  to  him  than  his  own 
life.  At  its  integrity  millions  of  men  were  striking  at  home,  and 
upon  this  government  foreign  eyes  lowered.     It  stood  a  lone  island 


DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN.  599 

in  the  sea,  full  of  storms,  and  every  tide  and  wave  seemed  eager  to  devour 
it.  Upon  thousands  of  hearts  great  sorrows  and  anxieties  have  rested,  but 
not  on  one  such  or  in  such  a  measure  as  upon  that  simple,  truthful,  noble 
soul,  our  faithful  and  sainted  Lincoln.  Never  rising  to  the  enthusiasm  of 
more  impatient  natures  in  hours  of  hope,  and  never  sinking  with  mercurial 
natures  in  hours  of  defeat  to  such  depths  of  despondency,  he  held  on  with 
immovable  patience  and  fidelity,  putting  caution  against  hope  that  it  might 
not  be  premature  and  hope  against  caution  that  it  might  not  yield  to 
dread  and  danger.  He  wrestled  ceaselessly  through  four  black  and  dread- 
ful purgatorial  years  wherein  God  was  cleansing  the  sin  of  His  people  aa 
by  fire.  At  last  the  watcher  beheld  the  gray  dawn  for  the  country ;  the 
mountains  began  to  give  their  forms  forth  from  out  of  darkness,  and  the 
East  came  rushing  towards  us  with  arms  full  of  joy  for  all  our  sorrows. 
Then  it  was  for  him  to  be  glad  exceedingly  that  had  sorrowed  immeasu- 
rably. Peace  could  bring  no  heart  such  joy,  such  rest,  such  honor,  trust 
and  gratitude.  He  but  looked  upon  it  as  Moses  looked  upon  the  promised 
land,  and  then  the  wail  of  the  nation  proclaimed  that  he  had  gone  from 
among  us.  Not  thine  the  sorrow,  but  ours,  sainted  soul.  Thou  hast 
indeed  entered  the  promised  land  while  we  yet  are  on  the  march.  To  us 
remains  the  rocking  of  the  deep  and  the  storm  upon  the  land.  Days  of 
duty  and  nights  of  watching,  but  thou  art  sphered  high  above  all  dark- 
ness, far  beyond  all  sorrow  and  weariness.  Oh,  weary  heart,  rejoice  ex- 
ceedingly thou  that  hast  enough  suffered.  Thou  hast  beheld  Him  who, 
invisibly,  hath  led  thee  in  this  great  wilderness.  Thou  standest  among 
the  elect;  around  thee  are  the  royal  men  that  have  ennobled  human  life  in 
every  age,  and  the  coronet  of  glory  on  thy  brow  as  a  diadem  of  joy  is  upoR 
thee  for  evermore.  Over  all  this  land,  over  all  the  little  cloud  of  years 
that  now  from  thy  infinite  horizon  moves  back  as  a  speck,  thou  art  lifted 
up  as  high  as  the  star  is  above  the  cloud.  In  the  goodly  company  of 
Mount  Zion  thou  shalt  find  that  rest  which  thou  hast  sorrowing  sought ; 
and  thy  name,  an  everlasting  name  in  Heaven,  shall  flourish  in  fragrance 
and  beauty  as  long  as  the  sun  shall  last  upon  the  earth,  and  hearts  remain 
to  revere  truth,  fidelity  and  goodness. 

He  who  now  sleeps  has  by  this  event  been  clothed  with  new  influence. 
Dead,  he  speaks  to  men  who  now  willingly  hear  what  before  they  refused 
to  listen  to.  Now  his  simple  and  weighty  words  will  be  gathered  like 
those  of  Washington,  and  your  children  and  children's  children  shall 
be  taught  to  ponder  the  simplicity  and  deep  wisdom  of  the  utterances 
which,  in  time  of  party  heat,  passed  as  idle  words.  The  patriotism  of  men 
will  receive   a  new  impulse,  and  men,  for  his  sake,  will  love  the  whole 


600 


FUNERAL  OF  LINCOLN. 


country  which  he  loved  so  well.  I  swear  you  on  the  altar  of  his  memory 
to  be  more  faithful  to  the  country  for  which  he  has  perished  by  his  very 
perishing,  and  swear  anew  hatred  to  that  slavery  which  made  him  a 
martyr  and  a  conqueror. 

And  now  the  martyr  is  moving  in  triumphal  march,  mightier  than 
when  alive.  The  nation  rises  up  at  every  stage  of  his  coming.  Cities  and 
States  are  his  pall-bearers,  and  the  cannon  speaks  the  hours  with  solemn 
progression.  Dead,  dead,  dead,  he  yet  speaketh.  Is  Washington  dead  ? 
Is  Hampden  dead  ?  Is  David  dead  ?  Is  any  man  that  ever  was  fit  to  live 
dead?  Disenthralled  of  flesh,  risen  to  the  unobstructed  sphere  where 
passion  never  comes,  he  begins  his  illimitable  work.  His  life  is  now 
grafted  upon  the  infinite,  and  will  be  fi'uitful,  as  no  earthly  life  can  be. 
Pass  on,  thou  that  hast  overcome  !  Your  sorrows,  oh  people,  are  his  peans, 
your  bells  and  bands  and  muffled  drums  sound  triumph  in  his  ears.  Wail 
and  weep  here ;  God  makes  it  echo  joy  and  triumph  there.  Pass  on  ! 
Four  years  ago,  oh  Illinois,  we  took  from  thy  midst  an  untried  man ;  and 
from  among  the  people ;  we  return  him  to  you  a  mighty  conqueror.  Not 
thine  any  more,  but  the  nation's ;  not  ours,  but  the  world's.  Give  him 
place,  oh  ye  prairies.  In  the  midst  of  this  great  continent  his  dust  shall 
rest,  a  sacred  treasure  to  myriads  who  shall  pilgrim  to  that  shrine  to  kindle 
anew  their  zeal  and  patriotism.  Ye  winds  that  move  over  the  mighty 
places  of  the  West,  chant  his  requiem !  Ye  people  behold  the  martyr 
whose  blood,  as  so  many  articulate  words,  pleads  for  fidelity,  fox  law,  for 
liberty ! 


FUNERAL  OF  LINCOLN. 


RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD. 


^OiE.AnE  !  Let  the  long  procession  come, 
l''ir,  bark! — tlio  tnournfiil,  muffled 
drum, 
Thf:  tnimpel'H  wail  .ifiir  ; 
And  HOf! !  tlie  .awful  car  ! 

Peace  !  Let  the  Had  proceBeion  go, 
While  rannon  hoom,  and  hells  toll  slow. 

And  go  thou  sacred  car. 

Bearing  our  woe  afar ' 

fjo,  darkly  home,  from  State  to  State, 
WLoiR!  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait 


To  honor  all  they  can, 
The  dust  of  that  good  man  1 

Go,  grandly  home,  with  Bu<h  a  train 
As  greatest  kings  might  die  to  gain  : 
The  just,  the  wise,  the  hravo 
Attend  thfe  to  tho  grave  ! 

And  you,  the  soldiers  of  our  wars. 
Bronzed  vetoranH,  grim  with  nohle  scarfl» 
Saluto  him  once  again, 
Your  lato  commander, — ilainf 


THE  SUN  IS  WARM,  THE  SKY  IS  CLEAR. 


GOl 


Yes,  let  your  tears  indignant  fall, 
But  leave  your  muskets  on  the  wall ; 
Your  country  needs  you  now 
Beside  the  forge,  the  plough  ! 

So  sweetly,  sadly,  sternly  goes 

The  fallen  to  his  last  repose. 

Beneath  no  mighty  dome, 
But  in  his  modest  home, 

The  churclij-ard  where  his  children  rest, 
The  quiet  spot  that  suits  him  best, 


There  shall  his  grave  be  made, 
And  there  his  bones  be  laid ! 

And  there  his  countrymen  shall  come. 

With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb, 

And  strangers,  far  and  near, 

For  many  and  many  a  year ! 

For  many  a  year  and  many  an  ag«. 
While  History  on  her  ample  page 
The  virtues  shall  enroll 
Of  that  paternal  soul! 


THE  SUN  IS  WARM,  THE  SKY  IS  CLEAR. 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY. 


HE  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast    and 

r  bright,  ^  • 

Blue   isles   and  snowy  mountains 
4  wear 

•  •     The  purple  noon's  transparent  light: 
J     The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds  ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, — 
The  winds',   the   birds',  the  ocean- 
floods', — 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Soli- 
tude's. 

I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 
With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds 

strown ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore 
Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showerti 

thrown ; 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone  ; 
The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion, — 
How  sweet,  did  any  heart  now  share 

in  my  emotion  ! 

Alas !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 
Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  Content  surpassing  wealth 


The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned, — 
Nor  fame,  nor   power,  nor  love,  nor  lei- 
sure; 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround ; 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure ; 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another 
measure. 


Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild 
Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 


602 


SEARCHING  FOR  THE  SLAIN. 


And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 


My   cheek   grow   cold,    and   hear   the 
sea 
Breathe   o'er   my   dying  brain  its  last  mo- 
notony. 


SEARCHING  FOR  THE  SLAIN. 


sOLD  the  lantern  aside,  and  shudder 
not  so ; 
There's  more  blood  to  see  than  this 
stain  on  the  snow  ; 
s'       There  are  pools  of  it,  lakes  of  it,  just 
I  over  there. 

And  fixed  faces  all  streaked,  and  crimson- 
soaked  hair. 
Did  you  think,  when  we  came,  you  and  I, 

out  to-night 
To  search  for  our  dead,  yon  would  be  a  fair 
sight? 

You're  his  wife  ;  you  love  him — you  think 

80 ;  and  I 
Am  only  his  mother ;  my  boy  shall  not  lie 
In  a  ditch  with  the  rest,  while  my  arms  can 

bear 
His  form  to  a  grave  that  mine  own  may  soon 

share. 
So,  if  your  strength  fails,  best  go  sit  by  the 

hearth, 
While  his  mother  alone  seeks  his  bed  on  the 

earth. 

You  will  go!  then  no  faintings!     Give  me 

the  light. 
And  follow  my  footsteps — my  heart  will  lead 

right. 
Ah,  God!  what  is  here?  a  great  heap  of  the 

slain. 
All  mangled  and  gory  ! — what  horrible  pain 
These  iKiings  have  died  in !     Dear  mothers, 

ye  weep, 
7e  weep,  oh,  ye  wc'-p  o'er  this  (frrible  sleep! 

More!  more!     Ah!  1  tbouglit  I  .■on),]  n<v(r- 

more  know 
Griff,  horror,  or  pity,  for  aught  hen-  below, 
Since  1  stood  in  the   porch  and  heard  his 

chief  t«Il 


How  brave  was  my  son,  how  ho  gallantly 

fell. 
Did  they  think  I  cared  then  to  see  officers 

stand 
Before  my  great  sorrow,  each  hat  in    each 

hand? 

Why,  girl,  do  you  feel  neither  reverence  nor 

fright. 
That  your  red  hands  turn  over  toward  this 

dim  light 
These  dead  men  that  stare  so  ?     Ah,  if  you 

had  kept 
Your  senses  this  morning  ere   his   comrades 

had  left, 
You  had  heard  that  his  place  was  worst  of 

them  all, — 
Not  'mid  the  stragglers,— whore  he  fought  he 

would  fall. 

There's  the  moon  through  the  clouds :  0 
Christ  what  a  scene  I 

Dost  Thou  from  Thy  heavens  o'er  such  vi- 
sions lean, 

And  still  call  this  cursed  world  a  footstool  of 
Thine  ? 

Hark  !  a  groan  !  tliorc  anotluT, — here  in  this 
line 

Piled  close  on  each  other!  Ah,  hero  is  tho 
flag. 

Torn,  dripping  with  gore ; — bah  !  thej-  died 
for  this  rag. 

Here's  the  voice  that  we  seek  ;  jtnor  soul,  d(, 

not  start; 
We're  women,  not  ghosts.     What  a  giish  o'er 

the  heart! 
Is  I'lerc  aught  v.'o  can  tlo  ?     A  message  to 

give 
To  any  beloved  one?     I  swear,  if  I  live. 
To  take  it  for  sake  of  tho  words  my  boy  said, 


FROM  WASHINGTON'S  INAUGURAL. 


603 


"  Home,"  "  mother,"  "  wife,"  ere  he   reeled 
down  'mong  the  dead. 

But,  first,  can  you  tell  where  his  regiment 

stood  ? 
Speak,  speak,  man,  or  point;  'twas  the  Ninth. 

Oh,  the  blood 
Is    choking    his    voice !     What   a    look    of 

despair ! 
There,  lean  on  my  knee,  while  I  put  back 

the  hair 
From  eyes  so  fast  glazing.     Oh,  my  darling, 

my  own, 
My  hands  were  both  idle  when  you  died  alone. 

He's  dying — he's  dead!     Close  his  lids,  let 

us  go. 
God's  peace  on  his  soul !     If  we  only  could 

know 
Where  our  own  dear  one  lies  ! — my  soul  has 

turned  sick ; 
Must  we  crawl  o'er  these  bodies  that  lie  here 

so  thick  ? 
I  cannot !  I  cannot !     How  eager  you  are ! 
One  might  think  you  were  nursed  on  the  red 

lap  of  War. 

He's   not  here — and  not  here.     What  wild 

hopes  flash  through 
My  thoughts,  as,  foot-deep,  I  stand  in  this 

dread  dew, 
And  cast  up  a  prayer  to  the  blue,  quiet  sky  ! 
Was  it  you,  girl,  that  shrieked  ?     Ah  !  what 

face  doth  lie 
Upturned   toward   me   there,   so    rigid   and 

white  ? 
0  God,  my  brain  reels!     'Tis  ^  dream.     My 

old  sight 

Is  dimmed  with  these  horrors.     Mj-  son !  oh, 

my  son  ! 
Would  I  had  died  for  thee,  my  own,  only  one  ! 


There,  lift  off  your  arms ;  let  him  come  to 

the  breast 
Where  first  he  was  lulled,  with  my  soul's 

hymn,  to  rest. 
Your   heart  never  thrilled  to  your   lover'i 

fond  kiss 
As  mine  to  his  baby-touch  ;  was  it  for  this  ? 

He  was  yours,  too  ;  he  loved  you  ?  Yes,  yes, 
you're  right. 

Forgive  me,  my  daughter,  I'm  maddened  to- 
night. 

Don't  moan  so,  dear  child ;  j'ou're  young, 
and  your  years 

May  still  hold  fair  hopes ;  but  the  old  die  of 
tears. 

Yes,  take  him  again; — ah!  don't  lay  your 
face  there ; 

See  the  blood  from  his  wound  has  stained 
your  loose  hair. 

How  quiet  you  are  !     Has  she  fainted  ? — her 

cheek 
Is  cold  as  his  own.  Say  a  word  to  me, — speak ! 
Am  I  crazed  ?     Is  she  dead  ?     Has  her  heart 

broke  first? 
Her   trouble  was   bitter,   but  sure  mine   i.s 

worst. 
I'm  afraid,  I'm  afraid,  all  alone  with  these 

dead ; 
Those  corpses  are  stirring ;  God  help  my  poor 

head  I 

I'll  sit  by  my  children  until  the  men  come 
To  bury  the  others,  and  then  we'll  go  home. 
Whj',  the  slain  are  all  dancing  I     Dearest, 

don't  move. 
Keep  away  from  my  boy  ;  he  s  guarded  by 

love. 
Lullaby,  lullaby  ;  sleep,  sweet  darling,  sleep  I 
God  and  thy  mother  will  watch  o'er  thee  keep ' 


FROM  WASHINGTON'S  INAUGURAL. 


^T  would  be  peculiarly  improper  to  omit,  in  this  first  official  act,  ray  fer- 

\     vent  supplications  to  that  Almighty  Being  who  rules  over  the  uni- 

I     verse,  who  presides  in  the  councils  of  nations,  and  whose  providential 

aids  can  supply  every  human  defect,  that  His  benediction  may  conse- 


604 


FROM  WASHINGTON'S  INAUGUBAL. 


crate,  to  the  ^'iberties  and  happiness  of  the  people  of  the  United  States, 
a  government  instituted  by  themselves  for  these  essential  purposes,  and 
may  enable  every  instrument  employed  in  the  administration  to  execute 
with  success  the  functions  allotted  to  its  charge.  In  tendering  this  homage 
to  the  Great  Author  of  every  public  and  private  good,  I  assure  myself  that 
it  expresses  your  sentiments  not  less  than  my  own,  nor  those  of  my  fellow- 
citizens  at  large  less  than  either. 


MOUNT  VERNON,  WASDINOTON's  MODEST  HOME. 

No  people  can  be  bound  to  acknowledge  and  adore  the  invisiljlc  hand 
which  conducts  the  affairs  of  men  more  than  the  people  of  the  United 
States.  Every  step  by  which  they  have  advanced  to  the  character  of 
an  independent  nation  seenu;  to  have  been  distinguished  ])y  some  tokt-n 
of  I'rovidential  agency;  and  in  the  important  revolution  just  ac(^om- 
pli.shed  in  the  system  of  tli-'ir  united  government,  the  traiKjuil  (lrlib,iMti,iiiH 
and  voluntary  consent  of  so  many  distinct  communities  from  which  t1i(» 
event  hjis  resulted,  cannot  bo  compared  with  the  means  by  whicli  mo.st 
governments  have  been  establi.shed,  without  some  return  of  p-ous  gratitude, 
ulong  witli  an  humble  anticipation  of  the  future  bleaaiugs  which  the  2)aat 
seems  to  presage. 


THE  COUNTESS. 


60o 


SLEEP  OF  THE  BRA  VE. 


WILLIAM    COLLINS. 


7  )W  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest, 
Uy  all  their  country's  wishes  blessed' 

^.•^  When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 

Thau  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 


By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung  , 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there  I 


THE  COUNTESS. 


J.  G.  WHITTIER. 


^"\'ER  the  wooded  northern  ridge, 
Between  its  houses  brown, 
<-^^^  To  the  dark  tunnel  of  the  bridge. 

The  street  comes  straggling  down. 

Vou  catch  a  glimpse,  through  birch  and  pine. 

Of  pable,  roof,  and  porch. 
The  tavern  with  its  swinging  sign, 

The  sharp  horn  of  the  church.  ♦ 


The  river's  steel-blue  crescent  curvea 

To  meet  in  ebb  and  flow. 
The  single  broken  wharf  that  serves 

For  sloop  and  gundelow. 

With  salt-sea  scents  along  its  shorea, 
The  heavy  hay- boats  crawl. 

The  long  antennae  of  their  oars 
In  lazy  rise  and  fall. 


606 


THE  COUNTESS. 


Along  the  gray  abutment's  wall 
The  idle  shad-net  dries : 

The  toll-man,  in  his  cobbler's  stall, 
Sitfl  smoking  with  closed  eyes. 


You  hear  the  pier's  low  undertone 
Of  waves  that  chafe  and  gnaw  ; 

You  start, — a  skipper's  horn  is  blown 
To  raise  the  creaking  draw. 

At  times  Ine  blacksmith's  anvil  sounds 

With  slow  and  sluggard  beat, 
Or  stage-coach  on  its  dusty  rounds 

Wakes  up  the  staring  street. 

A  place  for  idle  eyes  and  ears, 
A  cob-webbed  nook  of  dreams, 

Left  by  the  stream  whose  waves  are  years, 
The  stranded  village  seems. 

And  there,  like  other  mo.ss  and  rust, 

The  native  dweller  clings, 
^nd  keeps,  in  uninquiring  trust. 

The  old,  dull  round  of  things. 

The  fisher  drops  his  patient  lines, 

The  farmer  sows  his  grain. 
Content  to  hear  the  murmuring  pines, 

Instead  of  railroad  train. 

Oo  where,  along  the  tangled  steep 

That  slopes  against  the  west. 
The  hamlet's  buried  idlers  sleep 

In  still  profounder  rest. 

Throw  back  the  locust's  flowery  plume. 

The  birch's  pale-green  scarf, 
.\nd  break  the  web  f)f  brier  and  bloom 

From  name  and  r'pita[ih. 

\  sirnplo  niustor-roll  of  death, 
Of  jioiiip  and  romaQCO  Bhorn, 


The  dry,  old  names  that  common-breath 
Has  cheapened  and  outworn. 

Yet  pause  by  one  low  mound,  and  part 

The  wild  vines  o'er  it  laced. 
And  read  the  words,  by  rustic  art, 

Upon  its  head-stone  traced. 

Haply  yon  white-haired  villager 

Of  four  score  years  can  say, 
What  means  the  noble  name  of  her 

Who  sleeps  with  common  clay. 

An  exile  from  the  Gascon  land 

Found  refuge  here  and  rest, 
And  loved  of  all  the  village  band. 

Its  fairest  and  its  best. 

He  knelt  with  her  on  Sabbath  moms, 
He  woishiped  through  her  eyes, 

And  on  the  pride  that  doubts  and  scorns 
Stole  in  her  faith's  surprise. 

Her  simple  daily  life  he  saw 

By  homeliest  duties  tried, 
In  all  things  by  an  untaught  law 

Of  fitness  justified. 

For  her  his  rank  aside  he  laid ; 

He  took  the  hue  and  tone 
Of  lowly  life  and  toil,  and  made 

Her  simple  ways  his  own. 

Yet  still,  in  gay  and  careless  ease, 

To  harvest-field  or  dance 
He  brought  the  gentle  courtesies. 

The  nameless  grace  of  France. 

And  she  who  taught  him  love,  not  l^M 

From  him  she  loved  in  turn, 
Caught,  in  her  sweet  unconsciousness. 

What  love  is  quick  to  learn. 

Each  grew  to  each  in  plea8e<l  accord, 

Nor  knew  the  gazing  town 
If  she  looked  upward  to  her  lord, 

Or  he  to  her  looked  down. 

How  sweet  when  summer's  <]ay  was  o'ei^ 

Ilia  violin's  mirth  and  wail. 
The  walk  on  pleasant  Newbury's  short, 

The  river's  moonlit  nail  I 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


60? 


Ah !  Life  is  brief,  though  love  be  long ; 

The  altar  and  the  bier, 
The  burial  hymn  and  bridal  song, 

Were  both  in  one  short  year. 

Her  rest  is  quiet  on  the  hill, 
Beneath  the  locust's  bloom  : 

Far  off  her  lover  sleeps  as  still 
Within  -his  scutcheoned  tomb. 

The  Gascon  lord,  the  village  maid, 
In  death  still  clasp  their  hands  ; 

The  love  that  levels  rank  and  grade 
Unites  their  several  lands. 


What  matter  whose  the  hillside  grave, 
Or  whose  the  blazoned  stone  ? 

Forever  to  her  western  wave 
Shall  whisper  blue  Garonne ! 

0  love  ! — ?o  hallowing  every  soil 
That  gives  thy  sweet  flowers  room, 

Wherever,  nursed  by  ease  or  toil, 
The  human  heart  takes  bloom! 

Plant  of  lost  Eden,  from  the  sod 

Of  sinful  earth  unriven, 
White  blossom  of  the  trees  of  God 

Dropped  down  to  us  from  heaven  ! 

This  tangled  waste  of  mound  and  stone 

Is  holy  for  thy  sake  ; 
A  sweetness  which  is  all  thy  own. 

Breathes  out  of  fern  and  brake. 

And  while  ancestral  pride  shall  twine 
The  Gascon's  tomb  with  flowers. 

Fall  sweetly  here,  0  song  of  mine, 
With  summer's  bloom  and  showers. 

And  let  the  lines  that  severed  seem 

Unite  again  in  thee, 
As  western  wave  and  Gallic  8tre*ia 

Are  mingled  in  one  sea. 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


RALPH    WALDO   EMERSON. 


Ill  SUPPOSE  no  man  can  violate  his  nature.     All  the  salHes  of  his  will 
1^     are  rounded  in  by  the  law  of  his  being,  as  the  inequalities  of  Andes 
§^     find  Himalaya  are  insignificant  in  the  curve  of  the  sphere.     Nor  does 
4       it  matter  how  you  gauge  and  try  him.     A  character  is  like  an 
jf      acrostic  or  Alexandrian  stanza ;  read  it  forward,  backward,  or  across, 
T      it  still  spells  the  same  thing.  In  this  pleasing,  contrite,  wood-life  which 
God  allows  me,  let  me  record  day  by  day  my  honest  thought  without  pros- 
pect or  retrospect,   and,  I   cannot  doubt,  it  will  be  found  symmetrical, 
though  I  mean  it  not,  and  see  it  not.     My  book  should  smell  of  pines,  and 
resound  with  the  hum  of  insects.     The  swallow  over  my  window  should 
41 


608  SELf-RELIANCE. 


interweave  that  thread  or  straw  he  carries  in  his  bill  into  my  web  also. 
We  pass  for  what  we  are.  Character  teaches  above  our  wills.  Mei) 
imagine  that  they  communicate  their  virtue  or  vice  only  by  overt  actions, 
and  do  not  see  that  virtue  or  vice  emit  a  breath  every  moment.  Fear 
never  but  you  shall  be  consistent  in  whatever  variety  of  actions,  so 
they  be  each  honest  and  natural  in  their  hour.  For  if  one  will, 
the  actions  will  be  harmonious,  however  unlike  they  seem.  These  varieties 
are  lost  sight  of  when  seen  at  a  little  distance,  at  a  little  height  of  thought. 
One  tendency  unites  them  all.  The  voyage  of  the  best  ship  is  a  zigzag 
line  of  a  hundred  tacks.  This  is  only  microscopic  criticism.  See  the  line 
from  a  sufficient  distance,  and  it  straightens  itself  to  the  average  tendency. 
Your  genuine  action  will  explain  itself,  and  will  explain  your  other  genuine 
actions.  Your  conformity  explains  nothing.  Act  singly,  and  what  you 
have  already  done  singly  will  justify  you  now.  Greatness  always  appeals 
to  the  future.  If  I  can  be  great  enough  now  to  do  right  and  scorn  eyes 
I  must  have  done  so  much  right  before  as  to  defend  me  now.  Be  it  how  it 
will,  do  right  now.  Always  scorn  appearances,  and  you  always  may.  The 
force  of  character  is  cumulative.  All  the  foregone  days  of  virtue  work 
their  health  into  this.  What  makes  the  majesty  of  the  heroes  of  the  senate 
and  the  field,  which  so  fills  the  imagination  ?  The  consciousness  of  a  train 
of  great  days  and  victories  behind.  There  they  all  stand  and  shed  a 
united  light  on  the  advancing  actor.  He  is  attended  as  by  a  visible  escort 
of  angels  to  every  man's  eye.  That  is  it  which  throws  thunder  into 
Chatham's  voice,  and  dignity  into  Washington's  port,  and  America  into 
Adams'  eye.  Honor  is  venerable  to  us,  because  it  is  no  ephemeris.  It  is 
always  ancient  virtue.  We  worship  it  to-day,  because  it  is  not  of  to-day. 
We  love  it,  and  pay  it  homage,  because  it  is  not  a  trap  for  our  love  and 
homage,  but  is  self-dependent,  self-derived,  and  therefore  of  an  old,  immacu- 
late pedigree,  even  if  shown  in  a  young  person.  I  hope  in  these  days  we 
have  heard  the  last  of  conformity  and  consistency.  Let  the  words  be 
gazetted,  and  ridiculous  henceforward.  Instead  of  the  gong  for  dinner,  let 
us  hear  a  whistle  from  the  Spartan  fife.  Let  us  bow  and  apologize  never 
more.  A  great  man  is  coming  to  eat  at  my  house.  I  do  not  wish  to 
plea.se  him  ;  I  wish  that  he  should  wish  to  please  me.  I  will  stand  here  for 
humanity,  and  though  I  would  make  it  kind,  I  would  make  it  true.  Let 
us  aflront  and  reprimand  the  smooth  mediocrity  and  squalid  contentment 
of  tlie  times,  an<l  hurl  in  the  face  of  custom,  and  trade,  and  office,  the  liict 
which  is  the  upshot  of  all  history,  that  there  is  a  great  responsible 
Thiiiki;r  and  Actor  moving  whurevcr  moves  a  man ;  that  a  true  man  belongs 
to  no  other  time  or  place,  but  is  the  centre  of  things.     Where  he  i?  there 


NOCTURNAL  SKETCH. 


609 


is  nature.  He  measures  you,  and  all  men,  and  all  events.  You  are  con- 
strained to  accept  his  standard.  Ordinarily,  everybody  in  society  reminds 
us  of  somewhat  else,  or  of  some  other  person.  Character,  reality,  reminds 
you  of  nothing  else.  It  takes  place  of  the  whole  creation.  The  man 
must  be  so  much  that  he  must  make  all  circumstances  indiflferent, — put  all 
means  into  the  shade.  This  all  great  men  are  and  do.  Every  true  man 
is  a  cause,  a  country,  and  an  age;  requires  infinite  spaces,  and  numbers, 
and  time,  fully  to  accomplish  his  thought ;  and  posterity  seems  to  follow 
his  steps  as  a  procession.  A  man  Caesar  is  born,  and  for  ages  after  we 
have  a  Roman  Empire.  Christ  is  born,  and  millions  of  minds  so  grow 
and  cleave  to  his  genius,  that  he  is  confounded  with  virtue  and  the 
possible  of  man.  An  institution  is  the  lengthened  shadow  of  one  man ; 
as  the  Reformation  of  Luther ;  Quakerism  of  Fox ;  Methodism  of 
Wesley ;  Abolition  of  Clarkson.  Scipio,  Milton  called  "  the  height  of 
Rome ;"  and  all  history  resolves  itself  very  easily  into  the  biography  of  a 
few  stout  and  earnest  persons. 


NOCTURNAL  SKETCH. 


THOMAS   HOOD. 


j^JIgVEN  is  come ;  and  from  the  dark  Park, 
hark, 
The  signal  of  the  setting  sun — one 

gun^ 
And  six  is  sounding  from  the  chime, 

prime  time 
To  go  and  see  the  Drury-Lane  Dane 
slain, — 
Or  hear  Othello's  jealous  doubt  spout  out, — 
Or   Macbeth   raving    at    that   shade-made 

blade. 
Denying  to  his  frantic  clutch  much  touch ; — 
Or  else  to  see  Ducrow  with  wide  stride  ride 
Four  horses  as  no  other  man  can  span  ; 
Or  in  the  small  Olympic  Pitt  sit  split 
Laughing   at   Liston,   while    you    quiz    his 
phiz. 

Anon  night  comes,  and  with  her  wings  brings 

things 
Such   as,  with    his    poetic   tongue.   Young 

sung; 


The   gas    up-blazes    with   its    bright   white 

light, 
And    paralytic    watchmen    prowl,    howl, 

growl. 
About  the  streets  and  take  up  Pall -Mall  Sal, 
Who,  hasting  to  her  nightly  jobs,  robs  fobs. 

Now  thieves  to  enter  for  your  cash,  smash, 

crash. 
Past  drowsy  Charley,  in  a  deep  sleep,  creep, 
But,  frightened  by  Policeman  B.  3,  flee. 
And  while  they're  going,  whisper  low,  "  No 

go!" 

Now  puss,  while  folks  are  in  their  beds,  tread* 

leads. 
And  sleepers  waking,  grumble, — "  Drat  that 

cat!" 
Who  in  the  gutter  caterwauls,  squalls,  mauls. 
Some  feline  foe,  and  screams  in  shrill  ill-wilL 

Now  Bulls  of  Bashan,  of  a  prize  size,  riM 


610 


THE  SABBATH. 


In   childish  dreams,  and   with  a  roar  gore  ,  And  that  she  hears — -what  faith  is  man's — 


poor 


Ann's  banns 


Grec'ory,  or  Charley,  or  Billy,  willy-nilly ; —  And   his,   from    Reverend    Mr.    Rice,  twici. 

But  Nursemaid  in  a  nightmare  rest,  chest-  thrice ; 

pressed,  White  ribbons  ilourish,  and  a  stout  shout  out 

Dreameth  of  one  of  her  old  flames,  James  That  upward  goes,  shows  Rose  knows  tnose 

Games.  '           buws'  woes ! 


THE  SABBATH. 


JAMES   GRAHAME. 


ofe 


^^J^OW  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  I  Calmness    sits   throned   on    yon    unmoving 
^Iji  day!  |  rlnud. 


Mule  IB  the  voice  of  rural  labor,  hushed  To  hiin  who  wanders  o'er  ihr  upland  leas 

The  ploughboy'H  whistle  and  the  milkmaid's  The   blackbird's  note  comes  mellower  from 

gong.  till' dale; 

The  Bcythe    lies    glittering    in    the    dewy  And   Hweetor   fr..m   tlir^    sky   the    gladsome 

wreath  I'vrk 

Of  tedded  grass  mingled  with  fading  flowerH,  '  Warbles  lii.s  heaven-tuned  song;  lb- luTiing 

That  yeHtennorn   bloomed,   waving   in    iho  brook 

],ro0.zo  .  Murmurs  more  gently  down  tlie  dee[)-worn 

Sounds  the  most  faint  attract  the  ear,— the  glen  ; 

),„„,                                                   "  Wliilo  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  circling 

Of  early  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  <b!w,  ,               Hmoko 

The  distant  bleating,  midway  up  the  lull.  O'er  mounts  the  mist,  is  hoard  at  intervals 


MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE.  61 1 


The   voice   of  psalms,    the   simple   song   of 

praise. 
With  dove-like  wings  Peace  o'er  yon  village 

broods ; 


Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks 

«on  man. 
Her  deadliest  foe.     The  toil-worn  hor.-e,  set 
free. 


The  dizzying   mill-wheel  rests;  the   anvil's      Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at  large  ; 


din 

Hath  ('cased ;  all,  all  around  is  quietness. 
Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 


And  as  his  stiff,  unwieldy  Ijulk  he  rolls. 
His  iron-arrned  hoofs  gleam  in  the  niurning 
ray. 


MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE. 


ANONYMOUS. 


one  of  the  shelves  in  ray  library,  surrounded  by  volumes  of  all  kinds 
on  various  subjects,  and  in  various  languages,  stands  an  old  book, 
in  its  plain  covering  of  brown  paper,  unprepossessing  to  the  eye,  and 
apparently  out  of  place  among  the  more  pretentious  volumes  that 
stand  by  its  side.  To  the  eye  of  a  stranger  it  has  certainly 
neither  beauty  nor  comeliness.  Its  covers  are  worn ;  its  leaves 
marred  by  long  use;  yet,  old  and  worn  as  it  is,  to  me  it  is  the  most  beauti- 
ful and  most  valuable  book  on  my  shelves.  No  other  awakens  such  asso- 
ciations, or  so  appeals  to  all  that  is  best  and  noblest  within  me.  It  is, 
or  rather  it  was,  my  mother's  Bible — companion  of  her  best  and  holiest 
hours,  source  of  her  unspeakable  joy  and  consolation.  From  it  she  derived 
the  principles  of  a  truly  Christian  life  and  character.  It  was  the  light  to 
her  feet,  and  the  lamp  to  her  path.  It  was  constantly  by  her  side ;  and, 
as  her  steps  tottered  in  the  advancing  pilgrimage  of  life,  and  her  eves 
grew  dim  with  age,  more  and  more  precious  to  her  became  the  well-worn 
pages. 

One  morning,  just  as  the  stars  were  fading  into  the  dawn  of  the 
coming  Sabbath,  the  aged  pilgrim  passed  on  beyond  the  stars  and  beyond 
the  morning,  and  entered  into  the  rest  of  the  eternal  Sabbath — to  look 
upcn  the  face  of  Him  of  whom  the  law  and  the  prophets  had  spoken,  and 
whom,  not  having  seen,  she  had  loved.  And  now,  no  legacy  is  to  me  more 
precious  than  that  old  Bible.  Years  have  passed;  but  it  stands  there  on 
its  shelf,  eloquent  as  ever,  witness  of  a  beautiful  life  that  is  finished,  and  a 
silent  monitor  to  the  living.  In  hours  of  trial  and  sorrow  it  says,  "  Be 
not  cast  down,  my  son ;  for  thou  shalt  yet  praise  Him  who  is  the  health  of 
thy  countenance  and  thy  Goil."  In  moments  of  weakness  and  fear  it 
says,  "Be  strong,  my  son;  and  quit  yourself  manfully."     When  some- 


612 


i3READ  OX  THE  WATERS. 


times,  from  the  cares  and  conflicts  of  external  life,  I  come  back  to  the 
study,  weary  of  the  world  an!l  tired  of  men — of  men  that  are  so  hard  and 
selfish,  and  a  world  that  is  so  unfeeling — and  the  strings  of  the  soul  have 
become  untuned  and  discordant,  I  seem  to  hear  that  Book  saying,  as  with 
the  well-remembered  tones  of  a  voice  long  silent,  "Let  not  your  heart  be 
troubled.  For  what  is  your  life?  It  is  even  as  a  vapor."  Then  my 
troubled  spirit  becomes  calm;  and  the  little  world,  that  had  grown  so 
great  and  so  formidable,  sinks  into  its  true  place  again.  I  am  peaceful,  I 
am  strong. 

There  is  no  need  to  take  down  the  volume  from  the  shelf,  or  open  it. 
A  glance  of  the  eye  is  sufficient.  Memory  and  the  law  of  association  sup- 
ply the  rest.  Yet  there  are  occasions  when  it  is  otherwise ;  hours  in  life 
when  some  deeper  grief  has  troubled  the  heart,  some  darker,  heavier  cloud 
is  over  the  spirit  and  over  the  dwelling,  and  when  it  is  a  comfort  to  take 
down  that  old  Bible  and  search  its  pages.  Then,  for  a  time,  the  latest  edi- 
tions, the  original  languages,  the  notes  and  commentaries,  and  all  the 
critical  apparatus  which  the  scholar  gathers  around  him  for  the  study  of 
the  Scriptures,  are  laid  aside ;  and  the  plain  old  English  Bible  that  was 
my  mother's  is  taken  from  the  shelf. 


BREAD  ON  THE  WATERS. 


GEORGE   L.   CATLIN. 


;T.STER,"  the  little  fellow  said, 
"  Please  give  me  a  dime  to  Luy 
some  bread," 


I  turned  to  look  at  the  ragged  form, 
That,  in  the  midst  of  the  pitiless  storm, 
Pinched  and  haggard   and  old  with 
care. 
In  accents  plea^ling,  was  standing  there. 
Twas  a  little  hoy  not  twelve  years  old  : 
rif:  shivered  and  shook  in  the  hitler  cold, 
His  eyes  were  red — with  weeping,  I  fear — 
And  a<lowii  liin  iIkcUs  tlirrc  rolled  a  tear 
E'en  then. 

His  misery  struck  me  dumb  ; 
Twiis  a  street  in  a  crowded  city  slum, 
Where  an  crrrand  of  duty  led  my  feet 


That  day,  througli  the  storm  and    blinding 

sleet. 
"Poor  little  fellow  !"  at  last  I  said, 
"  Have  you  no  father?" 

"No,  he's  dead!" 
The  answer  came :  "  You've  a  mother,  thon  ?" 
"  Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  sob  :    "  She's  bean 
Sick  for  a  year,  and  the  doctor  said 
She'd  never  again  get  up  from  bed." 
"  You  are  hungry,  too  !"  I  asked  in  jmin. 
As  I  looked  at  his  poor,  wan  face  again. 
''  Hungry,"  ho  said,  with  a  liitter  groan 
Thiit  would  molt  to  pity  a  heart  of  stone  ; 
"  I  am  starved ;  wo  are  all  starving,"  belaid, 
"  We  haven't  had  a  crust  of  broad — 
Me,  nor  mother,  nor  baby  Kate — 
Since  yesterday  morning." 


THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 


613 


I  did  not  wait 
To  aak^liim  more.     "  Come,  come,"  I  cried, 
"  You  shall  not  hunger ;"  and  at  my  side 
His  poor  little  pattering  footsteps  fell 
On  my  ear  with  a  sadness  I  cannot  tell ; 
But  his  eyes  beamed  bright  when  he  saw  me 

stop 
Before  the  door  of  a  baker's  shop, 
And  we  entered. 

"  Now  eat  away,  my  boy. 
As  much  as  you  like,"  I  said.     With  joy. 
And  a  soft  expression  of  childish  grace, 
He  looked  up  into  my  friendly  face, 
And  sobbed,  as  he  strove  to  hide  a  tear : 
"  Oh,  if  mother  and  baby  Kate  were  here  !" 
"  But  eat,"  said  I,  "  never  mind  them  now," 
A  thoughtful  look  stole  over  his  brow. 
And  lo  !  from  his  face  the  joy  had  fled. 
"What!  While  they're  starving  at  homel" 

he  said : 
"  Oh,  no,  sir!  I'm  hungry,  indeed,  'tis  true, 
But  I  cannot  eat  till  they've  had  some  too." 

The  tears  came  rushing — I  can't  tell  why — 
To  ray  eyes,  as  he  spoke  these  words.  Said  I : 
"  God  bless  you !  Here,  you  brave  little  man. 


Here,  carry  home  all  the  bread  you  can." 
Then  I  loaded  him  down  with  loaves,  until 
He  cou]d  carry  no  more.     I  paid  the  bill ; 
And  before  he  could  quite  understand 
Just  what  I  was  doing,  into  his  hand 
I  slipped  a  bright  new  dollar  ;  then  said, 
"  Good-by, '  and  away  on  my  journey  sjied. 

'Twas  four  years  ago.    But  one  day  last  May, 
As   I   wandered    by   chance    through    East 

Broadway, 
A  cheery  voice  accosted  me.     Lo  ! 
'Twas  the  self-same  lad  of  years  ago. 
Though  larger  grown — and  his  looks,  in  truth, 
Bespoke  a  sober,  industrious  youth. 

"  Mister,"  he  said,  "  I'll  never  forget 

The  kindness  you  showed  when  last  we  met. 

I  work  at  a  trade,  and  mother  is  well. 

So  is  baby  Kate ;  and  I  want  to  tell 

You  this — that  we  owe  it  all  to  you. 

'Twas  you — don't  blush,  sir — that  helped  u» 

through 
In  our  darkest  hour  ;  and  we  always  say 
Our  luck  has  been  better  since  that  day 
When  you  sent  me  home  with  bread  to  feed 
Those  starving  ones  in  their  hour  of  need." 


THE  BELFBY  PIGEON. 


N.    P,    WILLIS. 


^N  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South 
bell 

The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well, 

In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is 
there, 

Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air. 

I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs. 
Circling  the  steeple  with  ea.sv  wings. 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  passed, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last. 
'Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note. 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its^  mottled  throat ; 
There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 


And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 
And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel, 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell. 
Chime  of  the  hour  or  funeral  knell, 
The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 
When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight 

moon. 
When  the  sexton  cheerily  rings  for  noon. 
When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light. 
When  thechild  is  waked  with  "nine  at  night,'' 
When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air. 
Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer. 
Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard. 


614 


THE  RESPONSIVE  CHORD. 


He  broods  on  his  folded  feet,  unstirred, 
Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 
He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast ; 
Then  drops  again,  with  filmed  eyes. 
And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird !  I  would  that  I  could  be 
A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee  ! 
With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 
Tliy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men ; 
And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 
I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 
But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er. 
Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world,  and  soar  ; 


Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 

Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 

And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 

I  would  that  in  such  wings  of  gold, 

I  could  my  weary  heart  up-fold ; 

I  would  I  could  look  down  unmoved, 

(  Unloving  as  I  am  unloved,) 

And  while  the  world  throngs  on  beneath. 

Smooth  down  my  cares,  and  calmly  breathe ; 

And  never  sad  with  others'  .«adness. 

And  never  glad  with  others'  gladness. 

Listen,  unstirred,  to  knell  or  chime, 

And,  lapped  in  quiet,  bide  my  time. 


THE  RESPONSIVE  CHORD. 


J,    WILLIAM    JONES. 


I^N  tne  early  spring  of  1863,  when  the  Confederate  and  Federal  armies 
were  confronting  each  other  on  the  opposite  hills  of  Stafford  and 
Spottsylvania,  two  bands  chanced  one  evening,  at  the  same  hour,  to 

^4'      Vjegin  to  discourse  sweet  music  on  either  bank  of  the  river.     A  large 

f  crowd  of  the  soldiers  of  both  armies  gathered  to  listen  to  the  music, 
the  friendly  pickets  not  interfering,  and  soon  the  bands  began  to  answer 
each  other.  First  the  band  on  the  northern  bank  would  play  "  Star 
Spangled  Banner/'  "  Hail  Columbia,"  or  some  other  national  air,  and  at 
its  conclusion  the  "  boys  in  blue  "  would  cheer  most  lustily.  And  then 
the  band  on  the  southern  bank  would  respond  with  "  Dixie  "  or  "  Bonnie 
Blue  Flag,"  or  some  other  Southern  melody,  and  the  "  boys  in  gray  " 
would  attest  their  approbation  with  an  "  old  Confederate  yell."  But  pres- 
ently one  of  the  bands  struck  u[),  in  sweet  and  plaintive  notes  wliidi  were 
wafted  across  the  beautiful  Puippahannock,  were  caught  up  at  once  by  the 
otlier  band  and  swelled  into  a  grand  anthem  which  touched  every  heart, 
"  Home,  Sweet  Home  !  "  At  the  conclusion  of  this  piece  there  went  up  a 
simultaneous  shout  from  both  sidcH  of  the  river — chcei-  fnllnwiMl  clicci-,  and 
those  hills,  which  had  so  recently  resounded  with  hostile^  guns,  oclioctl  and 
re-echoed  tlie  gla<l  acclaim.  A  chord  had  b(!on  struck  rcs)»onsive  to  which 
the  hearts  of  enemies — enemies  then — cr)uM  iM.it  in  unison  ;  and,  on  l)oth 
sides  of  the  river, 

"  Si>rn«tliirig  down  the  soldier's  cheek 
Wa/thed  off  tho  stains  of  powder." 


THE  TRUE  TEMPLE. 


615 


THE  TRUE  TEMPLE 


OT  where  high  towers  rear 

Their  lofty  heads  above  some  costly 

fane, 
Doth  God  our  Heavenly  Father  on- 
ly deign 
Our  humble  prayers  to  hear, — 


Not  where  the  lapsing  hours 
The  cankering  footprints  of  the  spoiler,  time, 
Are  idly  noted  with  a  sounding  chime, 

From  proud  cathedral  towers ; 

Not  where  the  chiseled  stone, 
And  shadowy  niche,  and  shaft  and  architrave, 
The  dim  old  chancel,  or  the  solemn  nave 

Seem  vast  and  chill  and  lone ; 


Not  'neath  the  vaulted  dome, 
Or  fretted  roof,  magnificently  flung, 
O'er  cushioned  seats,  or  curtained  desks  o  ei- 
hung 

With  rare  work  of  the  loom  ; 

Not  where  the  sunlight  falls 
From  the  stained  oriel  with  a  chastened  shade. 
O'er  sculptured  tombs  where  mighty  ones  are 
laid. 

Till  the  last  trumpet  calls  ; 

Not  where  rich  music  floats 
Through  the  hushed  air  until  the  soul  is  stirred, 
As  't  were  a  chord  from  that  bright  land  aa 
heard 

When  angels  swell  the  not«e. 


616 


THE  CRUMBIER  BOY. 


Perchance  'tis  well  to  raise 
These  palace  temples,  thus  rich  wrought,  to 

Him 
Who  'midst  His  thousand  thousand  cherubims 

Can  stoop  to  list  our  praise. 

Yet  when  our  spirits  bow 
And  sue  for  mercy  at  His  sacred  shrine, 
Can  all  the  trappings  of  the  teeming  mine 

Light  up  the  darkened  brow  ? 

O  no ! — God  may  be  there — 
His  smile  may  on  such  costly  altars  rest ; 


Yet  are  His  humbler  sanctuaries  blest 
With  equal  love  and  care. 

Aye,  wheresoe'er  on  earth 
Or  on  the  shore  or  on  the  far  blue  sea 
His  children,  offspring  of  the  true,  may  be, 

There  hath  his  spirit  birth. 

Our  sins  may  be  forgiven. 
As,  weak  and  few,  our  prayers  go  up  to  God  ; 
E'en  though  our  temple  floor  be  earth's  green 
sod. 

Its  roof  the  vault  of  heaven. 


THE  DRUMMER  BOY. 


AN   INCIDENT   OF   THE   CRIMEAN   WAR. 


^APTAIN    Graham,     the   men    were 
i7^io  sayin' 

Ye  would  want  a  drummer  lad. 
So  I've  brought  my  boy  Sandie, 

Tho'  my  heart  is  woful  sad ; 
But  nae  bread  i.s  left  to  feed  us. 

And  no  siller  to  buy  more. 
For  the  gudeman  sleeps  forever, 
Where  the  heather  blossoms  o'er. 

"  Sandie,  make  your  manners  quickly. 

Play  your  blithest  measure  true — 
Give  us  '  Flowers  of  Edinboro',' 

While  yon  fifer  plays  it  too. 
Captain,  heard  ye  e'er  a  player 

Strike  in  truer  time  than  he?" 
"  Nay,  in  truth,  brave  Sandie  Murray 

Drummer  of  our  corps  shall  be." 

"  I  give  ye  thanks— but.  Captain,  maybe 

Ye  wi[l  hae  a  kindly  care 
For  thft  friendless,  lonely  laddie. 

When  the  battle  wark  is  sair  • 
For  Sandie's  aye  been  good  and  gentle, 

And  I've  nothing  else  to  love. 
Nothing — but  tli<-  grave  off  yonder, 

And  the  Father  up  above." 

Then  her  rough  hand  gently  laying 
On  the  curl-cncirded  bead, 


She  blest  her  boy.     The  tent  was  silent. 
And  not  another  word  was  said  ; 

For  Captain  Graham  was  sadly  dreaming 
Of  a  benison,  long  ago, 

Breathed  above  his  head,  then  golden, 
Bending  now,  and  touched  with  snow. 

"Good-bye,  Sandie."    "Good-bye,  mother, 

I'll  come  back  some  summer  day ; 
Don't  you  fear — they  don't  shoot  drummers 

Ever.     Do  they.  Captain  Gra — ? 
One  more  kiss — watch  for  me,  mother, 

You  will  know  'tis  surely  me 
Coming  home — for  you  will  hear  me 

Playing  soft  the  reveille." 

After  battle.     Moonbeams  ghastly 

Seemed  to  link  in  strange  affright. 
As  the  scudding  clouds  before  them 

Shadowed  faces  dead  and  white  ; 
And  the  night  wind  softly  whispered. 

When  low  moans  its  light  wing  bore- 
Moans  that  fi-rried  spirits  over 

Death's  dark  wave  to  yonder  shore. 

Wandering  where  a  footstep  careless 
Might  go  s])la8hing  down  in  Idood, 

Or  a  helpless  hand  lie  grasping 
Death  and  daisies  from  the  sod — 


THE  BALLOT-BOX. 


617 


Captain  Graham  walked  swift  onward, 
While  a  faintly-beaten  drum 

Quickened  heart  and  step  together  : 
"  Sandie  Murray  !    See,  I  come ! 

"  Is  it  thus  I  find  you,  laddie  ? 

Wounded,  lonely,  lying  here, 
Playing  thus  the  reveille  ? 

See — the  morning  is  not  near." 
A  moment  paused  the  drummer  boy, 

And  lifted  up  his  drooping  head : 


"  Oh,  Captain  Graham,  the  light  is  coming, 
'Tis  morning,  and  my  prayers  are  said. 

"  Morning !     See,  the  plains  grow  brighter — • 

Morning — and  I'm  going  home  ; 
That  is  why  I  play  the  measure, 

Mother  will  not  see  me  come ; 
But  you'll  tell  her,  won't  you.  Captain — " 

Hush,  the  boy  has  spoken  true  ; 
To  him  the  day  has  dawned  forever, 

Unbroken  by  the  night's  tattoo. 


THE  BALLOT-BOX. 


E.    H.    CHAriN. 


sli  AM  aware  that  the  ballot-box  is  not  everywhere  a  consistent  symbol; 
«^  but  to  a  large  degree  it  is  so.  I  know  what  miserable  associations 
A  cluster  around  this  instrument  of  popular  power.  I  know  that  the 
*  arena  in  which  it  stands  is  trodden  into  mire  by  the  feet  of  reckless 
¥  ambition  and  selfish  greed.  The  wire-pulling  and  the  bribing,  the 
^  pitiful  truckling  and  the  grotesque  compromises,  the  exaggeration  and 
the  detraction,  the  melo-dramatic  issues  and  the  sham  patriotism,  the  party 
watchwords  and  the  party  nicknames,  the  schemes  of  the  few  paraded  as 
the  will  of  the  many,  the  elevation  of  men  whose  only  worth  is  in  the  votes 
they  command, — vile  men,  whose  hands  yoa  would  not  grasp  in  friendship, 
whose  presence  you  would  not  tolerate  by  your  fireside — incompetent  men, 
whose  fitness  is  not  in  their  capacity  as  functionaries,  or  legislators,  but  as 
organ  pipes ; — the  snatching  at  the  slices  and  ofFal  of  office,  the  intemper- 
ance and  the  violence,  the  finesse  and  the  falsehood,  the  gin  and  the  glory  ; 
these  are  indeed  but  too  closely  identified  with  that  political  agitation 
which  circles  around  the  ballot-box. 

But,  after  all,  they  are  not  essential  to  it.  They  are  only  the  masks 
of  a  genuine  grandeur  and  importance.  For  it  is  a  grand  thing, — some- 
thing which  involves  profound  doctrines  of  right, — something  which  has 
cost  ages  of  efibrt  and  sacrifice, — it  is  a  grand  thing  that  here,  at  last, 
each  voter  has  just  the  weight  of  one  man ;  no  more,  no  less ;  and  the 
weakest,  by  virtue  of  his  recognized  manhood,  is  as  strong  as  the  mightiest. 
And  consider,  for  a  moment,  what  it  is  to  cast  a  vote.  It  is  the  token  o) 
inestimable  privileges,  and  involves  the  responsibilities  of  an  hereditary 
irust.     It  has  passed  into  your  hands  as  a  right,  reaped  from  fields  of  suf' 


618 


THE  REVEILLE. 


fering  and  blood.  The  grandeur  of  history  is  represented  in  your  act. 
Men  have  wrought  with  pen  and  tongue,  and  pined  in  dungeons,  and  died 
on  scaffolds,  that  you  might  obtain  this  symbol  of  freedom,  and  enjoy  this 
consciousness  of  a  sacred  individuality.  To  the  ballot  have  been  trans- 
mitted, as  it  were,  the  dignity  of  the  sceptre  and  the  potency  of  the 
sword. 

And  that  which  is  so  potent  as  a  right,  is  also  pregnant  as  a  duty ; 
R  duty  for  the  present  and  for  the  future.  If  you  will,  that  folded  leaf 
becomes  a  tongue  of  justice,  a  voice  of  order,  a  force  of  imperial  law; 
securing  rights,  abolishing  abuses,  erecting  new  institutions  of  truth  and 
love.  x'Vnd,  however  you  will,  it  is  the  expression  of  a  solemn  responsibil- 
ity, the  exercise  of  an  immeasurable  power  for  good  or  for  evil,  now  and 
hereafter.  It  is  the  medium  through  which  you  act  upon  your  country, — 
the  organic  nerve  which  incorporates  you  with  its  life  and  welfare.  There 
is  no  agent  with  which  the  possibilities  of  the  republic  are  more  intimately 
involved,  none  upon  which  we  can  fall  back  with  more  confidence  than  the 
ballot-box. 


THE  REVEILLE. 


T.    B.    HART. 


Erey 


\RK  !  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands, 

And  of  armed  men  the  hum — 
Lo !  a  nation's  hosts  have  gathered 
Round  the  quick  alarming  drum, 
Saying,  "  Come, 
Freemen,  come, 
our  heritage  bo  wasted  !"  said  the  quick 
alarming  drum. 


I  But  the  drum 

I  Answered,  "  Come ! 

You  must  do  the  sum  to  prove  it 
I  Yankee-answering  drum. 


••  Let  me  of  my  heart  take  counsel — 

War  is  not  of  Life  the  sum  ; 
Who  shall  stay  and  reap  the  harvest 

When  the  autumn  days  shall  come  ?" 
But  the  drum 
Efhocd,  "Come! 
Death  shall  reap  the  hravfr  harvest  1"  said 
the  solemn-sounding  drum. 

•  But  when  won  the  coming  battle, 
What  of  [profit  springs  therefrom? 

'if\\Ai  if  conquest,  subjugation, 
Even  greater  ills  become?" 


said  the 


What  if,  'mid  the  cannon's  thunder. 

Whistling  shot  and  bursting  bomb, 
When  my  brethren  fall  around  me, 

Should  my  heart  grow  cold  and  numb?" 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come  ! 
Better  there  in  death  unito<l  tlian  in  life  * 
recreant — come  !" 

Tlius  tiny  answered— hoping,  fearing— 
Some  in  faith,  and  doubting  some- 
Till  a  truinpet-voico,  proclaiming, 

Said,  "My  chosen  people,  com(!l" 
Then  (lie  drum, 
Lo  !  was  dumb, 
For  the  preat  heart  of  tlie  nation,  tlirobbing, 
answered.  "  Lord  wo  come  !" 


LABOR  IS  WORSHIP. 


61G 


SEVEN  TIMES  TWO. 


JEAN    INGELOW. 


SjKpOU  bells  in  the  steeplo,  ring,  ring  out 
your  changes, 
'^         How  many  soever  they  be, 

And  let  the  brown  meadow-lark's 
note  as  he  ranges 
Come  over,  come  over  to  me. 

Yet  birds'  clearest  carol  by  fall  or  by  swell- 
ing 
No  magical  sense  conveys, 
And  bells  have   forgotten   their  old  art  of 
telling 
The  fortune  of  future  days. 


"  Turn  again,  turn  again,"  once  they  rang 
cheerily 
While  a  boy  listened  alone : 
Made   his    heart   yearn    again,    musing   bo 
wearily 
All  by  himself  on  a  stone. 

Poor  bolls !  I  forgive  you ;  your  good  daya 
are  over, 
And  mine,  they  are  yet  to  be ; 
No  listening,  no  longing,  shall  aught,  aught 
discover : 
I      You  leave  the  story  to  me. 


LABOR  IS  WORSHIP. 


FRANCES  S.  OSGOOD. 


iSSiAUSE  not  to  dream  of  the  future  be- 
fore us ; 
^  Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares  that 
come  o'er  us ; 
Hark,  how  Creation's  deep,  musical 
chorus, 
Unintermitting,  goes   up  into  ^^^ 

heaven ! 
Never  the  ocean  wave  falters  in  flowing  ;    ^  ^ 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing  ; 
More   and   more   richly   the   rose-heart 
keeps  glowing, 
Till   from   its   nourishing    stem   it   i.s 
riven. 

"  Labor  is  worship  !" — the  robin  is  sing- 
ing : 
"Labor   is   worship!" — the  wild  bee  is 

ringing ; 
Listen  !  that  eloquent  whisper  upspring- 

ing 
Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  Nature's  great 

heart. 
From  the  dark  cloud   flows  the  life-giving 

shower ; 


From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft-breathing 

flower ; 
From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral  bower  ; 
Only  man,  in  the  plan,  ever  shrinks  from 

his  part. 


- /'.<-^».1 /^- ■i' 


Labor  is  life  !     'Tis  the  still  water  faileth  ; 
Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth  ; 
Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark  rust  as 
saileth ; 


620 


LABOR  IS  WORSHIP. 


Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of 
noon. 

Labor  is  glory  1— the  flying  cloud  lightens  ; 
Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and  brightens ; 
Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  frightens ; 
Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst   thou  keep 
them  in  tune. 

Labor  is  rest  from  the  sorrows  that  greet  us, 
Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that  meet  us, 
Rest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever  entreat  us. 


I  How  his  strong  arm,  in  its  stalwart  prid& 
sweeping, 
True  as  a  sunbeam  the  swift  sickle  guides. 
j  Labor  is  wealth  !    In  the  sea  the  pearl  grow- 
I  eth; 

Rich  the  queen's  robe  from  the  frail  cocoon 
'  floweth  ; 

From  the  fine  acorn  the  strong  forest  blow- 
eth; 
Temple    and    statue    the    marble   block 
hides. 


Rest  from  world-sirons  that  lure  us  to  ill. 
Work — and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on  thy 

pillow ; 
Work — thou   shiilt   ri<lc  over  Care's  coming 

billow ; 
Lie  not  down  wearied  'nealli  Woe's  weeping- 
willow  ; 
Work  with  a  nto\il  lif:irl  mid  r.;H<.lute  will ! 

Labor  ishoaltli !  Lo,  the  liunbandinan  reaping, 
IIow  through  his  veins  goes  iIm-  lifi-  current 
leaping I 


Droop  not,  though  shame,  sin,  and  ati|^iiisl. 

are  round  thee ; 
Bravely  fling  off  the  cold  chain  that   halh 

boun<l  thee  ; 
Look  to  yon  jmre  heaven  smiling  beyond  llice; 
Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness — a  olcd. 
Work  for  some  good,  be  it  ever  so  slowly  ; 
Olnirish  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so  lowly,- 
Labor!  all  labor  is  nobh*  and  liolv  ; 

Let  fhy  groat  deeds  be  Uiy  prayer  to  thy 

God. 


THE  TOMBS  OF  WESTMINSTER.  621 


THE  TOMBS  OF  WESTMINSTER 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


^^  ROSE  and  prepared  to  leave  the  abbey.  As  I  descended  the  flight  of 
1^  steps  which  leads  into  the  body  of  the  building,  my  eye  was  cauglit 
^Ml  by  the  shrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  and  I  ascended  the  small 
I  staircase  that  conducts  to  it,  to  take  from  thence  a  general  survey  ol 
I  this  wilderness  of  tombs.  The  shrine  is  elevated  upon  a  kind  of 
1  platform,  and  close  around  it  are  the  sepulchres  of  various  kings  and 
queens.  From  this  eminence  the  eye  looks  down  between  pillars  and 
funeral  trophies  to  the  chapels  and  chambers  below,  crowded  with  tombs ; 
where  warriors,  prelates,  courtiers  and  statesmen,  lie  mouldering  in  their 
beds  of  darkness.  Close  by  me  stood  the  great  chair  of  coronation, 
rudely  carved  of  oak,  in  the  barbarous  taste  of  a  remote  and  Gothic  age. 
The  scene  seemed  almost  as  if  contrived,  with  theatrical  artifice,  to  produce 
an  effect  upon  the  beholder.  Here  was  a  type  of  the  beginning  and  the  end 
of  human  pomp  and  power ;  here  it  was  literally  but  a  step  from  the 
throne  to  the  sepulchre.  Would  not  one  think  that  these  incongruous 
mementos  had  been  gathered  together  as  a  lesson  to  living  greatness  ? — 
to  show  it,  even  in  the  moment  of  its  proudest  exaltation,  the  neglect  and 
dishonor  to  which  it  must  soon  arrive,  how  soon  that  crown  which  encircles 
its  brow  must  pass  away,  and  it  must  lie  down  in  the  dust  and  disgraces  of 
the  topib,  and  be  trampled  upon  by  the  feet  of  the  meanest  of  the  multitude. 
The  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly  streaming  through  the 
painted  windows  in  the  high  vaults  above  me;  the  lower  parts  of  the 
abbey  were  already  wrapped  in  the  obscurity  of  twilight.  The  chapels 
and  aisles  grew  darker  and  darker.  The  effigies  of  the  kings  faded  into 
shadows ;  the  marble  figures  of  the  monuments  assumed  strange  shapes  in 
the  uncertain  light ;  the  evening  breeze  crept  through  the  aisles  like  the 
cold  breath  of  the  grave  ;  and  even  the  distant  footfall  of  a  verger,  trav- 
ersing the  Poet's  Corner,  had  something  strange  and  dreary  in  its  sound. 
1  slowly  retraced  my  morning's  walk,  and  as  I  passed  out  at  the  portals  of 
the  cloisters,  the  door,  closing  with  a  jarring  noise  behind  me,  filled  the 
whole  building  with  echoes. 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  my  mind  of  the  objects  I 
had  been  contemplating,  but  found  they  were  already  fallen  into  indistinct- 
ness and  confusion,  l^ames,  inscriptions,  trophies,  had  all  become  con- 
founded in  my  recollection,  though  I  had  scarcely  taken  my  foot  from  off 
the  threshold.     What,  thought  I,  is  this  vast  assemblage  of  sepulchres  but 


622 


THE  LOST  CHURCH. 


a  treasury  of  humiliation  ;  a  huge  pile  of  reiterated  homilies  on  the  empti- 
ness of  renown,  and  the  certainty  of  oblivion !  It  is,  indeed,  the  empire 
of  death;  his  great  shadowy  palace,  where  he  sits  in  state,  mocking  at  the 
relics  of  human  glory,  and  spreading  dust  and  forgetfulness  on  the  monu- 
ments of  princes.  How  idle  a  boast,  after  all,  is  the  immortality  of  a 
name  I  Time  is  ever  silently  turning  over  his  pages ;  we  are  too  much 
engrossed  by  the  story  of  the  present,  to  think  of  the  characters  and  anec- 
dotes that  gave  interest  to  the  past,  and  each  age  is  a  volume  thrown  aside 
to  be  speedily  forgotten.  The  idol  of  to-day  pushes  the  hero  of  yesterday 
out  of  our  recollection  ;  and  will,  in  turn,  be  supplanted  by  his  successor 
to-morrow.  "  Our  fathers,"  says  Sir  Thom;is  Brown,  "  find  their  graves 
in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  us  how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  sur- 
vivors." History  fades  into  fable;  fact  becomes  clouded  with  doubt  and 
controversy ;  the  inscription  moulders  from  the  tablet ;  the  statue  falls  from 
the  pedestal.  Columns,  arches,  pyramids,  what  are  they  but  heaps  of  sand ; 
and  their  epitaphs,  but  characters  written  in  the  dust?  What  is  the 
security  of  a  tomb,  or  the  perpetuity  of  an  embalmment  ?  The  remains 
of  Alexander  the  Great  have  been  scattered  to  the  wind,  and  his  empty 
sarcophagus  is  now  the  mere  curiosity  of  a  museum.  "  The  Egyptian 
mummies,  which  Cambyses  or  time  hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth  ; 
Mizraim  cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams." 

What  then  is  to  insure  this  pile  which  now  towers  above  me  from 
sharing  the  fate  of  mightier  mausoleums  ?  The  time  must  come  when  its 
gilded  vaults,  which  now  spring  so  loftily,  shall  lie  in  rubbish  beneath  the 
feet ;  when,  instead  of  the  sound  of  melody  and  praise,  the  wind  shall 
whistle  through  the  broken  arches,  and  the  owl  hoot  from  the  scattered 
tower — when  the  garish  sunbeam  shall  break  into  these  gloomy  mansions 
of  death,  and  the  ivy  twine  round  the  fallen  column ;  and  the  fox-glove 
liang  its  blossoms  about  the  nameless  urn,  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  dead. 
Thus  man  passes  away ;  his  name  perishes  from  record  and  recollection ; 
his  history  is  as  a  tale  that  is  told,  and  his  vciy  monument  becomes  a  ruin. 


THE  LOST  CHURCH. 


FROM    TUE   GERMAN   OF   J.  L.  UlILAND. 


yon  (Icnflo  wood  full  oft  a  bell 
Is  hoard  o'orhoad  in  pcalingH  liollow  ; 
Yot  whf;nco  it  comcH  can  no  one  toll, 

Nor  Hcarco  il/t  dark  tradition  follow. 
For  winds  Iho  chiincH  aro  wafting  o'ot. 


Of  tho  lost  church  in  mystery  shrouded; 
The  patiiway,  too,  is  known  no  moro, 
That  once  the  pious  pilgrims  cro'irdod. 

I  latuly  111  that  wood  did  stray, 


CLEAR  THE  WAY. 


623 


Where  not  a  footworn  patli  extended, 
And  from  corruptions  of  the  day 

My  inmost  soul  to  God  ascended  ; 
And  in  the  silent,  wild  repose 

I  lieard  that  ringing  deeper,  clearer  ; 
The  higher  my  aspirings  rose, 

The  sound  descended  fuller,  nearer. 

That  sound  my  senses  so  entranced, 

My  soul  grew  so  retired  and  lowly, 
I  ne'er  could  tell  how  it  had  chanced 

That  I  had  reached  a  state  so  holy. 
A  century,  it  seemed  to  me, 

Or  more,  had  passed  while  I  was  dreaming, 
When  I  a  radiant  place  could  see 

Above  the  mists,  with  sunlight  streaming. 

The  heavens  a  deep,  dark  blue  appeared, 

The  sun's  fierce  light  and  heat  were  flow- 
ing, 
And  in  the  golden  light  upreared, 

A  proud  cathedral  pile  was  glowing. 
It  seemed  to  me  the  clouds  so  bright, 

As  if  on  wings,  that  pile  was  raising, 
Until  its  spires  were"lost  to  sight 

Within  the  blessed  heavens  blazing. 

And  lo  !  that  sweet  bell's  music  broke 
In  quivering  streams  from  out  the  tower; 

f^«  mortal  hand  its  tones  awoke — 
That  bell  was  rung  by  holy  power. 


And  through  rny  beating  heart,  too,  swept 
That  power  in  full  and  perfect  measure ; 

And  then  in  that  high  dome  I  stepped 
With  faltering  feet  and  tim'rous  pleasure 

Yet  can  I  not  in  words  make  known 

What  then  I  felt.     On  windows  painted, 
And  darkly  clear,  around  rne  shown, 

Were  pious  scenes  of  martyrs  sainted. 
Thus  wondrous  clear  mine  eyes  before, 

Did  they  of  life  a  picture  show  me  ; 
And  out  into  a  world  I  saw. 

Of  women  and  God's  warriors  holy. 

I  knelt  before  the  altar  there — 

Devotion,  love,  all  through  me  stealing — 
And  all  the  Heaven's  glory  fair 

Was  o'er  me  painted  on  the  ceiling ; 
And  lo  !  when  next  I  upward  gazed, 

The   dome's  vast   arch  had   burst,  and — 
wonder! — 
The  Heaven's  gate  wide  open  blazed. 

And  every  veil  was  rent  asunder! 

What  glories  on  mine  eyes  did  fall 

While  thus  in  reverent  awe  still  kneelinj^ 
What  holier  sounds  I  heard  than  all 

Of  trumpet  blast  or  organ  pealing. 
No  words  possess  the  power  to  tell  I 

Who  truly  would  such  bliss  be  feeling, 
Go  listen  to  the  wondrous  bell 

That,  weird-like,  through  the  wood  is  peal- 
ing. 


CLEAR  THE  WAY. 


CHARLES    MACKAY. 


'^EN  of  thought,   be  up  and  stirring 
night  and  day : 
Sow  the  seed — withdraw  the  cur- 
tain— clear  the  way  ! 
Men  of  action,  aid  and  cheer  them, 
as  ye  may  ! 
There's  a  fount  about  to  stream, 
There's  a  light  about  to  beam. 
There's  a  warmth  about  to  glow, 
There's  a  flower  about  to  blow ; 
A'2 


There's  a  midnight  blackness  changing  into 

gray. 
Men  of   thought  and  men  of   action,  clear 

the  way  ! 

Once   the  welcome   light   has   broken,  who 

shall  say 
What  the  unimagined  glories  of  the  day  ? 
What  tlie  evil  that  shall  perish  in  its  ray? 
Aid  the  dawning,  tongue  and  pea; 


624 


THE  NOBLE  REVENGE. 


Aid  it,  hopes  of  honest  men, 

Lo !  the  right's  about  to  conquer ;  clear  the 

Aid  it,  paper ;  aid  it,  type ; 

way! 

Aid  it,  for  the  hour  is  ripe, 

With  the  right  shall  many  more 

And   our    earnest    must    not    slacken    into 

Enter  smiling  at  the  door  : 

play. 

With  the  giant  wrong  shall  fall 
!Many  others,  great  and  small, 

Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action,  clear  the 

way! 

That  for  ages  long  have  held  us   for  their 

Lo!    a  cloud's   about   to   vanish    from    the 

prey. 

day; 

Men  of  thought  and  men  of  action,  clear  Uw 

And  a  brazen  wrong  to  crumble  into  clay. 

way! 

THE  NOBLE  REVENGE. 


JTE  coffin  was  a  plain  one — a  poor  miserable  pine  coffin.  No  flowera 
on  the  top ;  no  lining  of  white  satin  for  the  pale  brow ;  no  smooth 
ribbons  about  the  coarse  shroud.  The  brown  hair  was  laid  de- 
cently back,  but  there  was  no  crimped  cap  with  neat  tie  beneath 
the  chin.  The  sufferer  from  cruel  poverty  smiled  in  her  sleep ; 
she  had  found  bread,  rest,  and  health. 
"  I  want  to  see  my  mother,"  sobbed  a  poor  little  child,  as  the  under- 
taker screwed  down  the  top. 

"  You  cannot ;  get  out  of  the  way,  boy ;  why  don't  somebody  take 
the  brat  ?  " 

"  Only  let  me  see  her  one  minute  ! "  cried  the  helpless  orphan,  clutch- 
ing the  side  of  the  charity  box,  and  as  he  gazed  upon  the  rough  box, 
agonized  tears  streamed  down  the  cheeks  on  which  no  childish  bloom  ever 
lingered.  Oh  !  it  was  painful  to  hear  him  cry  the  words,  "  Only  once,  let 
me  see  my  mother,  only  once  !  " 

Quickly  and  brutally  the  heartless  monster  struck  the  boy  away,  so 
that  he  reeled  with  the  blow.  For  a  moment  the  boy  stood  panting  with 
grief  and  rage — his  blue  eyes  distended,  his  lips  sprang  apart,  fire  glittered 
through  his  eyes  as  he  raised  his  little  arm  with  a  most  unchiklish  laugh, 
and  screamed,  "  When  I  am  a  man,  I'll  be  revenged  for  that !  " 

There  wa«  a  coffin  and  a  heap  of  earth  between  the  mother  and  the 
poor  forsaken  child — a  monument  much  stronger  than  granite  built  in  the 
boy's  heart  the  memory  of  the  heartless  deed. 


The  court-house  was  crowded  to  suffocation, 

"  Docs  anv  one  appear  as  this  man'y  counsel  ?  "  asked  the  Judge. 


TWO  VIEWS. 


625 


There  was  a  silence  when  he  had  finished,  until,  with  lips  tightly 
pressed  together,  a  look  of  strange  intelligence  blended  with  a  haughty  re- 
serve upon  his  handsome  features,  a  young  man  stepped  forward  with  a  firm 
tread  and  kindly  eye  to  plead  for  the  erring  friendless.  He  was  a  stranger, 
hut  at  the  first  sentence  there  was  silence.  The  splendor  of  his  genius 
entranced — convinced. 

The  man  who  could  not  find  a  friend  was  acquitted. 

"  May  God  bless  you,  sir ;  I  cannot,"  he  said. 

"  I  want  no  thanks,"  replied  the  stranger. 

*'  I — I — I  believe  you  are  unknown  to  me." 

"  Man,  I  will  refresh  your  memory.  Twenty  years  ago,  this  day,  you 
struck  a  broken-hearted  little  boy  away  from  his  dear  mother's  cofiin.  I 
was  that  boy." 

The  man  turned  livid. 

"  Have  you  rescued  me  then,  to  take  my  life  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  a  sweeter  revenge.  I  have  saved  the  life  of  a  man  whose 
brutal  conduct  has  rankled  in  my  breast  for  the  last  twenty  years.  Go 
then,  and  remember  the  tears  of  a  friendless  child." 

The  man  bowed  his  head  in  shame,  and  went  from  the  presence  of 
magnanimity  as  grand  to  him  as  it  was  incomprehensible. 


TWO    VIEWS. 


old  farm-house  with  meadows  wide, 
lil  And  sweet  with  clover  on  each  side ; 
A  bright-eyed  boy  who  looks  from  out 

SThe  door  with  woodbine  wreathed  about. 
And  wishes  his  one  thought  all  day : 
"Oh  !  if  I  could  but  fly  away 
From  this  dull  spot  the  world  to  see, 
How  very  happy  I  should  be  1 " 


Amid  the  city's  constant  din, 
A  man  who  round  the  world  has  been, 
Who,  'mid  the  tumult  and  the  throng 
Is  thinking,  thinking  all  day  long  ; 
"  Oh  could  I  only  tread  once  more 
The  field-path  to  the  farm  house  door, 
The  old  green-meadow  could  I  see, 
How  very  happy  I  should  be !  " 


626 


THE  LULL  OF  ETERNITY. 


THE  LULL  OF  ETERNITY. 


FRANCES  RIDLEY  HAVERGAL, 


^>|PJF:^-^^Y  a  voice  has  echoed  the  cry  for  i  Here  it  is  "  calling  apart,"  and  the  place  may 


"  a  kill  in  life," 

r"   '  ^S/  Fainting  under  the  noontide,  faint- 
ing under  the  Btrife. 
Is  it  the  wisest  longing  ?     Is  it  the 
J"  truest  gain  ' 

J  Is  not  the  Master  withholding  pos- 

sible loss  and  pain  ? 

Perhaps  if  He  sent  the  lull,  we  might  fail  of 
our  heart's  desire ! 

Swift  and  sharp  the  concussion,  striking  out 
living  fire ; 

Nightly  and  long  the  friction  resulting  in 
living  glow, 

Heat  that  is  force  of  the  spirit,  energy  fruit- 
ful in  flow. 

WTiat  if  the  blast  should  falter?     What  if 

the  fire  be  stilled  ? 
What  if  the  molten  metal  cool  ere  the  mould 

be  filled? 
What  if  the  hands  hang  down  wlum  a  work 

is  almost  done  ? 
What  if  the  sword  be  dropped  when  a  battle 

is  almost  won  ? 

Past  many  an  unseen  maelstrom  the  strong 
wind  drives  the  skiff, 

When  a  lull  might  drift  it  onward  to  fatal 
swirl  or  cliff. 

Faithful  the  guide  who  spurrcth,  sternly  for- 
bidding repoKf, 

When  treacherous  slumber  lureth  to  pause 
amid  Alpine  snows. 

riio  lull  of  Time  may  bo  darkness,  filling  in 

lonely  night, 
But  the  lull  of  eternity  neareth,  rising  in  full, 

calm  light : 
The  earthly   lull   may    bo    silence,  flesolate, 

ib'Op  and  cold, 
ttut  the  heavenly  lull  hiiiiH  !.'•  tmiMic,  swc^eter 

a  thousand  fold. 


be  desert  indeed. 
Leaving  and  losing  the  blessings  linked  with 

our  busy  need. 
There  I  why  should  I  say  it  ?  hath  not  the 

heart  leaped  up. 
Swift  and  glad,  to  the  contrast,  filling  the  full, 

full  cup ! 

Still  shall  the  key-word,  ringing,  echo  the 

same  sweet  "  Come  !" 
"  Come  "  with  the  blessed  myriads,  safe  in  the 

Father's  home ; 
"Come,"  for  the  work  is  over;  "  Come"  for 

the  feast  is  spread  ; 
"  Come,"  for  the  crown  of  glory  waits  for  the 

weary  head. 

When  the  rest  of  faith  is  ended,  and  the  rest 

of  hope  is  past. 
The  rest  of  love  remaineth.  Sabbath  of  life, 

at  last. 
No  more  fleeting  hours,  hurrying  down  the 

day. 
But  golden  stillness  of  gloiy,  never  to  pass 

away. 

Time,  v/ith  its  jiressure  of  moments,  mocking 
us  as  they  fell. 

With  relentless  beat  of  a  footstep,  hour  by 
hour,  the  knell 

Of  a  hope  or  an  aspiration,  then  shall  have 
passed  away, 

Leaving  a  grand,  calm  leisure,  leisure  of  end- 
less day. 

Lidsuro  that  cannot  be  diinmi'd  by  tin'  touch 
of  time  or  jilaci?  ; 

Finding  its  counterpart  measure  (inly  in  in- 
finite space ; 

Full,  and  yet  ever  filling ;  leisure  without 
alloy. 

Eternity's  seal  on  th<i  Htuitless  charter  o) 
heavenly  joy. 


FORMATION  OF  ICEBERGS. 


627 


Leisure  to  fathom  the  fathomless,  leisure  to 

Dues  it  seem  that  tlie  noisy  city  never  will 

seek  and  to  know 

let  thee  hear 

Marvels    and    secrets    and  glories   Eternity 
only  can  show . 

The  sound  of  His  gentle  footsteps,  drawing, 
it  may  be,  near  ? 

Leisure  of  holiest  gladness,  leisure  of  holiest 
love, 

Does  it  seem  that  the  blinding  dazzle  of  noon- 

Leisure to  drink  from  the  fountain  (jf  infinite 
peace  above. 

day  glare  and  heat 
Is  a  fiery  veil  between  thy  heart  and  visions 
high  and  sweet? 

Art  thou  patiently  toiling,  waiting  the  Mas- 
ter's will, 

What  though  a  lull    in  life  may  never   be 
made  for  thee '/ 

For  a  rest  that  seems  never  nearer,  a  hush 

Soon  shall  a  "better  thing"  be  thine,  the 

that  is  far  off  still  ? 

Lull  of  Eternity. 

FORMATION  OF  ICEBERGS. 


ELISHA    KENT    KANE. 


6one. 


|T  an  island  known  in  the  Esquimaux  tongue  as  Ekarasak,  there  Uved 
a  deputy  assistant  of  the  Pvoyal  Greenland  Company,  a  worthy 
man  by  the  name  of  Grundeitz.  It  seems  that  the  deep  water  of 
Omenaks  Fiord  is  resorted  to  for  halibut  fishing,  an  operation  which 
is  carried  on  at  the  base  of  the  clijEFs,  with  very  long  lines  of  whale- 
While  Mr.  Grundeitz,  in  a  jolly-boat  belonging  to  the  company, 
was  fishing  up  the  fiord,  his  attention  was  called  to  a  largo  number  of 

boarded  seals,  who  were 
sporting  about  beneath 
one  of  the  glaciers  that 
protruded  into  the  bay. 
While  approaching  for 
the  purpose  of  a  shot, 
he  heard  a  strange 
sound,  repeated  at  in- 
tervals like  the  ticking 
of  a  clock,  and  appar- 
ently proceeding  from 
the  body  of  the  ice. 
At  the  same  time  the 
seal,  which  the  moment 
before  had  been  per- 
fectly unconcerned,  dis- 
appeared entirely,  and  his  Esquimaux  attendants,  probably  admonished  by 


628 


HOME,  SWEET  HOME. 


previous  experience,  insisted  upon  removing  the  boat  to  a  greater  distance. 
It  was  well  they  did  so ;  lor,  gazing  at  the  white  face  of  the  glacier  at  ine 
distance  of  about  a  mile,  a  loud  explosive  detonation,  like  the  crack  of  a 
whip  vastly  exaggerated,  reached  their  ears,  and  at  the  same  instant,  with 
reverberations  like  near  thunder,  a  great  mass  fell  into  the  sea,  obscuring 
everything  in  a  cloud  of  foam  and  mist. 

The  undulations  which  I'adiated  from  this  great  centre  of  displace- 
ment were  fearful.  Fortunately  for  Mr.  Grundeitz,  floating  bodies  do  not 
change  their  position  very  readily  under  the  action  of  propagated  waves, 
and  the  boat,  in  consequence,  remained  outside  the  grinding  fragments ; 
but  the  commotion  was  intense,  and  the  rapid  succession  of  huge  swells 
such  as  to  make  the  preservation  of  the  little  party  almost  miraculous. 

The  detached  mass  slowly  adjusted  itself  after  some  minutes,  but  it 
was  nearly  an  hour  before  it  attained  its  equilibrium.  It  then  floated  on 
the  sea,  an  iceberg. 


HOME,  SWEEl  HOME. 


JOHN    HOWARD    TAVNE. 


ID  iiloaBurcs  and  palaces  tlioiigli  wo  '  An    exilo   from   home,   Bi-londor   dazzles    in 

may  roam,  vain  ! 

Be   it   ever  ho  humblo    there's  no  O,    give    me    my    lowly     tiialched    cottage 

jdace  like  home!  af^ain  ' 

A   fharm  from  the  skies  seems  to  1  The    birds   singing   gayly   that  <-aiiie  to  my 

hallow  UH  hero  i                          ''iili ; 

Which,  seek  through  the  world  is  ne'.-r  0,  give  me  swc.-t  peaci;  of  mind,  .hanr  llian 

met  with  elsewhere,  all  ' 

Tlome!  home,  sweet  home!  Il..m.'   horn.',  sw<'"(  Imme! 

There's  no  place  like  homo!  Tii-Te's  no  place  like  homo! 


OUR  LAMBS. 


629 


OUR  LAMBS. 


mm  LOVED  them  so, 

^    That  when  iheElder  Shephord  of  tlic  fold 

fCaine,  covered  with  the  storm  and  pale 
and  cold, 
?      And  begged  for  one  of  my  sweet  lambs 
I  to  hold, 

1  I  bade  Him  go. 

He  claimed  the  pet, 
A  little  fondling  thing,  that  to  my  breast 
Clung  always,  either  in  quiet  or  unrest — 
I  thought  of  all  my  lambs  I  loved  him  best, 

And  yet — and  yet — 

I  laid  him  down 
In  those  white  shrouded  arms,  with  bitter 

tears ; 
For  some  voice  told  me  that,  in  after  years, 
He  should  know  naught  of  passion,  grief  or 
fears, 

As  I  had  known. 

And  yet  again 
That  Elder  Shepherd  came. — My  heart  grew 

faint. 
He  claimed  another  lamb,  with  sadder  plaint, 
Another  !     She,  who  gentle  as  a  saint, 

Ne'er  gave  me  pain. 

Aghast,  I  turned  awaj'. 
There  sat  she,  lovely  as  an  angel's  dream. 
Her  golden  locks  with  sunlight  all  agleam. 
Her  holy  eyes,  with  heaven  in  their  beam. 

I  knelt  to  pray. 

"  Is  it  Thy  will  ? 
My  Father,  say,  must  this  pet  lamb  be  given  ? 
Oh !  Thou  hast  many  such  in  heaven." 
And  a  soft  voice  said :    "  Nobly  hast  thou 
striven. 

But — peace,  be  still." 

Oh  how  I  wept. 
And  clasped  her  to  my  bosom,  with  a  wild 
And  yearning  love — my  lamb,  my  pleasant 

child,  ■ 
Her,  too,  I  gave.     The  little  angel  smiled. 

And  slept. 


'  Go  !  go !"  I  cried : 
For  once  again  that  Shepherd  laid  his  hand 
Upon  the  noblest  of  our  household  band. 
Like  a  pale  spectre,  there  he  took  his  stand. 

Close  to  his  sic'e. 

And  yet  how  wondrous  sweet 
The  look  with  which  he  heard  my  passionate 

cry: 
"  Touch  not  my  lamb ;  for  him,  oh !  lot  me 

die  !" 
"  A  little  while,"  he  said,  with  smile  and  sigh, 
"  Again  to  meet." 

Hopeless  I  fell ; 
And  when  I  rose,  the  light  had  burned  so  low, 
So  faint,  I  could  not  see  my  darling  go  : 
He  had  not  bidden  me  farewell,  but,  oh! 

I  felt  farewell. 

More  deeply  far 
Than  if  my  arms  had  compassed  that  slight 

frame. 
Though  could  I  but  have  heard  him  call  my 

name — 
"  Dear  Mother !" — but  in  heaven  'twill  be  th* 
same. 

Thore  burns  my  star  ! 

He  will  not  take 
Another  lamb,  I  thought,  for  only  one 
Of  the  dear  fold  is  spared  to  be  my  sun. 
My  guide,  my  mourner  when  this  life  is  done, 

My  heart  would  break. 

Oh!  with  what  thrill 
I  heard  him  enter  -.  but  I  did  not  know 
(For  it  was  dark)  that  he  had  robbed  me  so. 
The  idol  of  my  soul — he  could  not  go. 

Heart !  be  still ! 

Came  morning,  can  I  tell 
How  this   poor  frame  its  sorrowful  tenant 

kept? 
For  waking,  tears  were  mine ;   T,  sleeping. 

wept. 
And  da3's,  months,  years,  that  weary  vigil 
kept. 
Alas !  "  Farewell." 


630 


THE  CLOCKWORK  OF  THE  SKIES. 


ffow  often  it  is  said ! 

Ay  !  it  is  well. 

I  sit  and  think,  and  wonder  too,  some  time, 

Well  with  my  lambs,  and  with  their  earthly 

How  it  will  seem,  when,  in  that  happier  clime 

guide. 

It  never  will  ring  out  like  funeral  chime 

There,  pleasant  rivers  wander  they  beside, 

Over  the  dead. 

Or  strike  sweet  harps  upon  its  silver  tide, 

Ay  !  it  is  well. 

No  tears  !  no  tears ! 

Will  there  a  day  come  that  I  shall  not  weep  ? 

Through  the  dreary  day 

For  I  bedew  my  pillow  in  my  sleep. 

They  often  come  from  glorious  light  to  me  ; 

Yes,  yes  ;  thank  God  !    no  grief  that  clime 

I  cannot  feel  thoir  touch,  their  faces  see, 

shall  keep, 

Yet  my  soul  whispers,  they  do  come  to  me. 

No  weary  years. 

Heaven  is  not  far  away. 

THE  CLOCKWORK  OF  THE  SKIES. 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 


•'.  derive  from  the  observations  of  the  heavenly  bodies  which  are 
made  at  an  observatory  our  only  adequate  measures  of  time,  and 
our  only  means  of  comparing  the  time  of  one  place  with  the  time 
of  another.      Our  artificial  timekeepers, — clocks,   watches,  and 
4;  chronometers, — however  ingeniously  contrived  and  admirably  fa- 

J  bricated,  are  but  a  transcript,  so  to  say,  of  the  celestial  motions, 

and  would  be  of  no  value  without  the  means  of  regulating  them  by  oliscr- 
vation.  It  is  impossible  for  them,  under  any  circumstances,  to  escape  the 
imperfection  of  all  machinery,  the  work  of  human  hands  ;  and  the  moment 
we  remove  with  our  timekeeper  east  or  west,  it  fails  us.  It  will  keep 
home-time  alone,  like  the  fond  traveler  who  leaves  his  heart  behind  him. 
The  artificial  instrument  is  of  incalculal)le  utility,  but  must  itself  be  regu- 
lated by  the  eternal  clockwork  of  the  skies. 

This  single  consideration  is  sufficient  to  show  how  completely  the  daily 
business  of  life  is  affected  and  controlled  by  the  heavenly  bodies.  It  is  they 
and  not  our  main-springs,  our  expansion-balances,  and  our  compensation- 
pendulums,  which  give  us  our  time.     To  reverse  the  line  of  Pope, — 


'Tis  witlj  our  watches  and  our  judgments  :   iiono 
Go  just  alike,  but  each  believes  hiH  own. 

But  for  all  the  kindreds  and  tribes  and  torigut^s  of  m(!n, — each  upon  their 
own  meridian, — from  the  Arctic  pole  to  the  o([uator,  from  tin'  ((puitor  to 
the  Antarctic  polo,  the  eternal  sun  strikes  twelve  at  noon,  ;ind  tiie  glorious 
constellations,  far  up  in  the  uvcrlasLing  bcl fries  of  the  skies,   chime  twelve 


LADY  CLARE. 


631 


at  midnight — twelve  for  the  pale  student  over  his  flickering  lamp — twelve 
amid  the  flaming  wonders  of  Orion's  belt,  if  he  crosses  the  meridian  at 
that  fated  hour — twelve  by  the  weary  couch  of  languishing  humanity, 
twelve  in  the  star-paved  courts  of  the  Empyrean — twelve  for  the  heaving 
tides  of  the  ocean ;  twelve  for  the  weary  arm  of  labor ;  twelve  for  the  toil- 
ing braiij ;  twelve  for  the  watching,  waking,  broken  heart ;  twelve  for  the 
meteor  which  blazes  for  a  moment  and  expires ;  twelve  for  the  comet  whose 
period  is  measured  by  centuries ;  twelve  for  every  substantial,  for  everj' 
imaginary  thing,  which  exists  in  the  sense,  the  intellect,  or  the  fancy,  and 
which  to  speech  or  thought  of  man,  at  the  given  meridian,  refers  to  the 
lapse  of  time. 


LADY  CLARE. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 


iT  was  the  time 
when  lilies 
blow, 

And  clouds 

are    highest 

up  in  air, 

Lord  Ronald 

brought    a 

lily-white  doe, 

To  give  his  cousin, 
Lady  Clare. 

trow  they  did  not 
part  in  scorn ; 
Lovers  longbetroth- 
ed  were  they ; 
riiey  two  will  wed  the 
morrow  morn ; 
God's  blessing  on  the 
day! 

"  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair ; 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice,  the  nurse, 
Said,  "Who  was  this  that  went  from  thee?" 


"  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare, 
"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  mo." 

"Oh,  God  be  thank 'd,"  said  Alice  the  nurst 
"  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair, 

Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands. 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Are  you  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my 
nurse?" 

Said  Lady  Clare,  "  that  ye  speak  .so  wild?'^ 
"  As  God's  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  I  speak  the  truth  ;  you  are  my  child. 

"The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my  breast 
I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread ! 

I  buried  her  like  ray  own  sweet  child, 
And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done. 

Oh  mother,"  she  said ;  "  if  this  be  true, 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 

So  many  years  from  his  due."  , 

"Nay,  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurpe 
"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 

And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's 
When  you  are  man  and  wife." 


632 


CRIME  SELF-REVEALED. 


"  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

PuU  !)ff,  pull  off  the  brooch  of  gold, 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

"Nay,  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  But  keep  the  secret  all  you  can." 

She  said,  "  Not  so  ;  but  I  will  know 
If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"  Nay,  now,  what   faith  ?"    said   Alice  the 
nurse, 

"  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 
"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  replied, 

"  Though  I  should  die  to-night." 

"Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear! 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinned  for  thee." 
"  Oh,  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 

"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

"  Yet  here's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 

My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so, 
And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 

And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown, 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 
She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down. 

With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 
Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay. 


Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand. 
And  foUow'd  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower ; 

"  Oh,  Lady  Clare  you  shame  your  worth  1 
Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village-maid. 

That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ?" 

"If  I  come  drest  like  a  village-maid, 

I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are : 
I  am  a  beggar-born,"  she  said, 

"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  in  deed. 

Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

Oh  and  proudly  stood  she  up  ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail  ; 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laughed  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn  ; 

He  turn'd  and  kiss'd  her  where  she  stood: 
"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born. 

And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  next  in  blood — 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born. 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn. 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 


CRIME  SELF-REVEALED, 


DANIEL   WEBSTER. 


?^f^;''AINST  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  as  an  individual,  I  cannot  have  the 

i;^v*s     -lightest  prejudice.     I  would  not  do  him  the  smallest  injury  or  in- 

•4-*       justice.     But  I  do  not  affect  to  be  indifferent  to  the  discovery  and 

Y  the  puni.shment  of  this  deep  guilt.     I  cheerfully  share  in  the  oppro- 

T         brium,  how  much  soever  it  may  be,  which   is  cast  on   those  who 

feel  and  manifest  an  anxious  concern  that  all  who  had  a  j»art   in  j»l;inning 

or  a  hand  in  executing,  this  deed  of  midnight  a.ssiissination,  may  be  brought 

to  answer  for  tluiir  enormous  crime  at  the  bar  of  public  justice. 


CRIME  SELF-REVEALED.  633 

Gentlemen,  this  is  a  most  extraordinary  case.  In  some  respects  it  has 
hardly  a  precedent  anywhere — certainly  none  in  our  New  England  history. 
An  aged  man,  without  an  enemy  in  the  world,  in  his  own  house,  and  in  his 
own  bed,  is  made  the  victim  of  a  butchery  murder,  for  mere  pay.  Deep 
sleep  had  fallen  on  the  destined  victim,  and  on  all  beneath  his  roof.  A 
healthful  old  man  to  whom  sleep  was  sweet — the  first  sound  slumbers  of 
the  night  hold  him  in  their  soft  but  strong  embrace. 

The  assassin  enters  through  the  window,  already  prepared,  into  an 
unoccupied  apartment ;  with  noiseless  foot  he  paces  the  lonely  hall,  half 
lighted  by  the  moon ;  he  winds  up  the  ascent  of  the  stairs,  and  reaches 
the  door  of  the  chamber.  Of  this  he  moves  the  lock,  by  soft  and  con- 
tinued pressure,  till  it  turns  on  its  hinges ;  and  he  enters  and  beholds  his 
victim  before  him.  The  room  was  uncommonly  light.  The  face  of  the  inno- 
cent sleeper  was  turned  from  the  murderer ;  and  the  beams  of  the  moon, 
resting  on  the  gray  locks  of  his  aged  temple,  showed  him  where  to  strike. 
The  fatal  blow  is  given,  and  the  victim  passes,  without  a  struggle  or  a 
motion  from  the  repose  of  sleep  to  the  repose  of  death !  It  is  the  assas- 
sin's purpose  to  make  sure  work ;  and  he  yet  plies  the  dagger,  though  it 
was  obvious  that  life  had  been  destroyed  by  the  blow  of  the  bludgeon.  He 
even  raises  the  aged  arm,  that  he  may  not  fail  in  his  aim  at  the  heart,  and 
replaces  it  again  over  the  wound  of  the  poniard !  To  finish  the  picture, 
he  explores  the  wrist  for  the  pulse !  he  feels  for  it,  and  ascertains  that  it 
beats  no  longer !  It  is  accomplished  !  the  deed  is  done  !  He  retreats — 
retraces  his  steps  to  the  window,  passes  through  as  he  came  in,  and  escapes. 
He  has  done  the  murder  ;  no  eye  has  seen  him,  no  ear  has  heard  him ;  the 
secret  is  his  own,  and  it  is  safe  ! 

Ah  !  gentlemen,  that  was  a  dreadful  mistake.  Such  a  secret  can  be 
safe  nowhere.  The  whole  creation  of  God  has  neither  nook  nor  corner, 
where  the  guilty  can  bestow  it  and  say  it  is  safe.  Not  to  speak  of  that 
eye  which  glances  through  all  disguises,  and  beholds  everything  as  in  the 
splendor  of  noon, — such  secrets  of  guilt  are  never  safe ;  "  murder  will 
out."  True  it  is  that  Providence  hath  so  ordained,  and  doth  so  govern 
things,  that  those  who  break  the  great  law  of  heaven,  by  shedding  man's 
blood,  seldom  succeed  in  avoiding  discovery.  Especially  in  a  case  exciting 
so  much  attention  as  this,  discovery  must  and  will  come,  sooner  or  later. 
A  thousand  eyes  turn  at  once  to  explore  every  man,  every  thing,  every 
circumstance,  connected  with  the  time  and  place ;  a  thousand  eara  catch 
every  whisper;  a  thousand  excited  minds  intently  dwell  on  the  scene; 
shedding  all  their  light,  and  ready  to  kindle  the  slightest  circumstance  into 
a  blaze  of  discovery.     Meantime  the  guilty  soul  cannot  keep  its  own  secret 


634 


GEMS  FROM  SHAKSPEARE. 


It  is  false  to  itself — or  rather  it  feels  an  irresistible  impulse  of  conscience 
to  be  true  to  itself — it  labors  under  its  guilty  possession,  and  knows  not 
what  to  do  with  it.  The  human  heart  was  not  made  for  the  residence 
of  such  an  inhabitant;  it  finds  itself  preyed  on  by  a  torment  which  it 
dares  not  acknowledge  to  God  or  man.  A  vulture  is  devouring  it,  and  it 
asks  no  sympathy  or  assistance  either  from  heaven  or  earth.  The  secret 
•which  the  murderer  possesses  soon  comes  to  possess  him  ;  and  like  the  evil 
spirits  of  which  we  read,  it  overcomes  him,  and  leads  him  whithersoever 
it  will.  He  feels  it  beating  at  his  heart,  rising  to  his  throat,  and  demand- 
ing disclosure.  He  thinks  the  whole  world  sees  it  in  his  face,  reads  it  in 
his  eyes,  and  almost  hears  its  workings  in  the  very  silence  of  his  thoughts. 
It  has  become  his  master ; — it  betrays  his  discretion ;  it  breaks  down  his 
courage ;  it  conquers  his  prudence.  When  suspicions  from  without  begin  to 
embarrass  him,  and  the  net  of  circumstances  to  entangle  him,  the  fatal 
secret  struggles  with  still  greater  violence  to  burst  forth.  It  must  be  con- 
fessed ;  it  will  be  confessed  ;  there  is  no  refuge  from  confession  but  in 
suicide,  and  suicide  is  confession. 


GEMS  FROM  SHAKSPEARE. 


SKFpIIEY  well  deserve  to  have, 
gi|jy;^  That  know  the  strong'st  and  surest 
f^'-^  way  to  get. 

."f  So  Judas  kiss'd  his  Master; 

And    cried — all    hail !     when    as    he 
meant, — all  harm. 

A  scar  nobly  got,  or  a  noble  scar,  is  a 
good  livery  of  honor. 

He  that  is  giddy  thinks  tliat  the  world  turns 
round. 

A  lady's  verily  is 
As  jiotcnt  as  a  lord's. 

What   is   yours  to   bestow   is   not  yours   to 
reserve. 

Praising  what  is  lo.st 
Makes  the  remembrance  dear. 

What  is  the  city  but  the  people  ' 

Let  them  obey,  that  know  not  how  to  rule. 

A  friend   i'  the  court  is  better  than   a  [icnny 
in  puree. 


The  plants  look  up  to  heaven,  from  wheno« 
They  have  their  nourishment. 

Things  in  motion  sooner  catch  the  eye, 
Than  what  not  stirs. 

Light  boats  sail  swift,  though  greater  hulks 
draw  deep. 

A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  infirniitieg. 
Make  not  your  thoughts  your  prisons. 
There  is  no  time  so  miserable  but  a  man  may 
be  true. 

Let  us  be  sacrificers,  but  no  butchers. 

Time  is  the  nurse  and  breeder  of  all  good. 

Striving  to  better,  oft  wo  mar  what's  well. 

Receive  what  cheer  you  may ; 
Tlie  night  is  long,  that  never  finds  the  day. 

Wisely   and    slow :    they   stumble    tlial    run 

fast. 
Nor  ask  advi'c  (if  any  other  thought 
But  faith,  fulness,  and  courage. 


GEMS  FROM  SHAKSPEARE. 


635 


Happy  are  they  that  hear  their  detractions, 
and  can  put  them  to  mending. 

Nor  s9ek  for  danger 
Where  there's  no  profit. 

Brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit, 
Ind    tediousness    the    limbs    and    outward 
flourishes. 

Pity  is  the  virtue  of  the  law, 

And  none  but  tyrants  use  it  cruelly. 

All  difficulties  are  but  easy  when  they  are 
known. 

When  sorrows  come,  they  come  not  single 

spies, 
But  in  battalions. 

Fashion  wears  out  more  apparel  than   the 
man. 

Too  light  winning 
Makes  the  prize  light. 

What  great  ones  do. 
The  less  will  prattle  of. 

Men  are  men  ;  the  best  sometimes  forget. 

A  Roman  with  a  Roman's  heart  can  suffer. 

True  valor  still  a  true  respect  should  have. 

Oft  the  eye  mistakes,  the  brain  being  trou- 
bled. 

Thoughts  are  but  dreams,  till  their  efifects  be 
tried. 

The   old    bees  die — the   young  possess    the 
hive. 

Mud  not   the  fountain    that  gave  drink   to 
thee. 

Mar  not  the  thing  that  cannot  be  amended. 

The  hearts  of  old  gave  hands  . 
But  our  new  heraldry  is — hands,  not  hearts. 

Security 
Is  mortal's  chiefest  enemy. 

Dull  not  device  by  coldness  and  delay. 

Wisely  weigh 
Our  sorrow  with  our  comfort. 

A  custom 
More  honor'd  in  the  breach  than  the  observ 
ance. 


Celerity  i.s  never  more  admired, 
Than  by  the  negligent. 

The  weakest  kind  of  fruit 
Drops  earliest  to  the  ground. 

'Tis  not  enough  to  help  the  feeble  up, 
But  to  support  him  after. 

Be  to  yourself 
As  you  would  to  your  friend. 

Trust  not  him,  that  hath  once  broken  faith. 

There's  place  and  means  for  every  man  alive. 

There's  not  one  wise  man  among  twenty  that 
will  praise  himself. 

Small  things  make  base  men  proud. 

A  golden  mind  stoops  not  to  show  of  dross. 

How  poor  an  instrument, 
May  do  a  noble  deed. 

Things  ill  got  had  ever  bad  success. 

Every  cloud  engenders  not  a  storm. 

Pleasure  and  action   make  the  hours   seem 
short. 

Direct  not    him   whose    way   himself    v/ill 
choose. 

It  is  religion  that  doth  make  vows  kept. 

An  honest  tale  speeds   best,   being   plainly 
told. 

There's   beggary  in  the   love   that  can   be 
reckon'd. 

Take  all  the  swift  advantage  of  the  hours. 
Where  fair  is  not,  praise  cannot  mend  the 
brow. 

'Tis  time  to  fear  when  tyrants  seem  to  kiss. 

The  better  part  of  valour  is — discretion. 

Short-lived  wits  do  wither  as  they  grow. 

The  bitter  past,  more  welcome  is  the  sweet. 

j  The  words  of  Mercury  are  harsh   after  the 
song  of  Apollo. 

There's  small  choice  in  rotten  apples. 

Melancholy  is  the  nurse  of  frenzy. 

Strong  reasons  make  strong  actions. 
Fly  pride,  says  the  peacock. 


636  THE  GROTTO  OF  ANTIPAROS. 


THE  GROTTO  OF  ANTIPAROS. 


I^A VEENS,  especially  those  which  are  situated  in  limestone,  commonly 
present  the  formations  called  stalactites,  from  a  Greek  word  signi- 
fying distillation  or  dropping.  The  manner  of  their  production 
admits  of  a  very  plain  and  simple  explanation.     They  proceed  from 

i  water  trickling  through  the  roofs  containing  carbonate  of  lime, 
held  in  solution  by  carbonic  acid.  Upon  exposure  to  the  air  the 
carbonic  acid  is  gradually  disengaged,  and  a  pellicle  of  lime  is  deposited. 
The  process  proceeds,  drop  after  drop,  and  eventually,  descending  points 
hanging  from  the  roof  are  formed,  resembling  icicles,  which  are  composed 
of  concentric  rings  of  transparent  pellicles  of  lime,  presenting  a  very 
peculiar  appearance,  and,  fi*om  their  connection  with  each  other,  produc- 
ing a  variety  of  singular  shapes.  These  descending  points  are  the  stalac- 
tites properly  so  called,  from  which  the  stalagmites  are  to  be  distinguished, 
which  cover  the  floors  of  caverns  with  conical  inequalities.  These  are  pro- 
duced by  the  evaporation  of  the  larger  drops  which  have  fallen  to  the  bot- 
tom, and  are  stalactites  rising  upwards  from  the  ground.  Frequently,  in 
the  course  of  ages,  the  ascending  and  descending  points  have  been  so  in- 
creased as  to  meet  together,  forming  natural  columns,  a  series  of  which 
bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  pillars  and  arches  of  Gothic  architec- 
lure. 

The  amount  of  this  disposition  which  we  find  in  caverns  capable  of 
producing  it,  is,  in  fact,  enormous,  and  gives  us  an  impressive  idea  of  their 
extraordinary  antiquity.  The  grotto  of  Antiparcs — one  of  the  islands  of  the 
Grecian  Archipelago — is  particularly  celebrated  on  account  of  the  size  and 
diversity  of  form  of  these  deposits.  It  extends  nearly  a  thousand  feet 
beneath  the  surface,  in  primitive  limestone,  and  is  aecei^sible  by  a  narrow 
entrance  which  is  often  very  steeply  inclined,  but  divided  by  level  landing 
places.  After  a  series  of  descents,  the  traveler  arrives  at  the  Great  Hall, 
AS  it  is  called,  the  sides  and  roof  of  which  are  covered  with  immense  in- 
crustations of  calcareous  matter.  The  purity  of  the  surrounding  stone, 
and  the  thickness  of  the  roof  in  which  the  unfiltered  water  can  deposit  all 
impure  fidmixtures,  give  to  its  stalactites  a  beautiful  whiteness.  Tall 
pillars  stand  in  many  places  free,  near  each  other,  ajid  single  groups  of 
Btalagmitos  form  figures  so  strongly  resembling  plants,  that  Tournofort  en- 
deavored to  prove  from  them  a  vegetable  nature  in  stone.  The  remark  of 
that  intelligent  ti-avcler  is  an  amusing  example  of  over  (confidence: — 
'Uncxj    again    I   rejieat  it,   it  is    impossible  this  should  t»e  done  by  the 


GKuIi'U    Uk'    A2»i'Ii:^Ai:uS. 


THE  ANGEL'S  STORY, 


037 


droppings  of  water,  as  ia  pretended  by  those  who  go  about  to  explain 
the  formation  of  congelations  in  grottoes.  It  is  much  more  probable  that 
these  other  congelations  we  speak  of,  and  which  hang  downwards  or  rise 
out  different  ways,  were  produced  by  one  principle,  namely,  vegetation." 

The  sight  of  the  whole  is  described,  by  those  who  have  visited  this 
cavern,  as  highly  imposing.  In  the  middle  of  the  Great  Hall,  there  is  a 
remarkably  fine  and  large  stalagmite,  more  than  twenty  feet  in  diameter, 
and  twenty-four  feet  high,  termed  the  Altar,  from  the  circumstance  of  the 
Marquis  de  Nointel,  the  ambassador  from  Louis  XIV.  to  the  Sultan,  hav- 
ing caused  high  mass  to  be  celebrated  here  in  the  year  1673.  The  cere- 
mony was  attended  by  five  hundred  persons;  the  place  was  illuminated  by 
a  hundred  large  wax  torches ;  and  four  hundred  lamps  burned  in  the 
grotto,  day  and  night,  for  the  three  days  of  the  Christmas  festival.  This 
cavern  was  known  to  the  ancient  Greeks,  but  seems  to  have  been  com- 
pletely lost  sight  of  till  the  seventeenth  century. 


THE  ANGEL'S  STORY. 


ADELAIDE   A.  PROCTOR. 


IIROUGH  the  blue  and  frosty  heav- 
ens, 
Christmas  stare  were  shining  bright ; 
i^'-^  Glistening  lamps  throughout  the  city 
f  Almost  matched  their  gleaming 
f  ligbt ; 

\       While  the  winter  snow  was  lying, 
And  the  winter  winds  were  sighing, 
Long  ago,  one  Christmas  night. 

While,  from  every  tower  and  steeple, 
Pealing  bells  were  sounding  clear. 

Never  with  such  tones  of  gladness. 
Save  when  Christmas  time  is  near,  - 

Many  a  one  that  night  was  merry 
Who  had  toiled  through  all  the  year. 

That  night  saw  old  wrongs  forgiven : 
Friends,  long  parted,  reconciled  ; 

Voices  all  unused  to  laughter, 
Mournful  eyes  that  rarely  smiled. 

Trembling  hearts  that  feared  the  morrow. 
From  their  anxious  thoughts  beguiled. 
43 


Rich  and  poor  felt  love  and  blessing 
From  the  gracious  season  fall ; 

Joy  and  plenty  in  the  cottage, 
Peace  and  feasting  in  the  hall ; 

And  the  voices  of  the  children 
Ringing  clear  above  it  all ! 

Yet  one  house  was  dim  and  darkened ; 

Gloom,  and  sickness,  and  despair, 
Dwelling  in  the  gilded  chambers, 

Creeping  up  the  marble  stair ; 
Even  stilled  the  voice  of  mourning, 

For  a  child  lay  dying  there. 

Silken  curtains  fell  around  him. 
Velvet  carpets  hushed  the  tread  ; 

Many  costly  toys  were  lying, 
All  unheeded,  by  his  bed  ; 

And  his  tangled  golden  ringlets 
Were  on  downy  pillows  spread. 

Tlie  skill  of  all  that  mighty  city 
To  save  one  little  life  was  vain  ; 


G38 


THE  ANGEL'S  STORY. 


One  little  thread  from  being  broken, 
One  fatal  word  from  being  spoken ; 

Nay,  his  very  mother's  pain, 
And  the  mighty  love  within  her, 

Could  not  give  him  health  again. 

So  she  knelt  there  still  beside  him, 
She  alone  with  strength  to  smile, 

Promising  that  he  should  suffer 
No  more  in  a  little  while, 

Murmuring  tender  song  and  story. 
Weary  hours  to  beguile. 

Suddenly  an  unseen  Presence 

Checked  those  constant  moaning  cries, 
Stilled  the  little  heart's  quick  fluttering, 

Raised  those  blue  and  wondering  eyes, 
Fixed  on  some  mysterious  vision 

With  a  startled,  sweet  surprise. 

For  a  radiant  angel  hovered, 

Smiling,  o'er  the  little  bed ; 
White  his  raiment,  from  his  shoulders 

Snowy,  dove-like  pinions  spread. 
And  a  star-like  light  was  shining 

In  a  glory  round  his  head. 

While,  with  tender  love,  the  angel. 

Leaning  o'er  the  little  nest. 
In  hi.s  arms  the  sick  child  folding. 

Laid  him  gently  on  his  breast, 
Sobs  and  wailings  told  the  mother 

That  her  darling  was  at  rest. 

So,  the  angel,  slowly  rising, 

Spread  liis  wings,  and  through  the  air. 
Bore  the  child,  and  while  lie  held  him 

To  his  heart  with  loving  care, 
Placed  a  branch  of  crimson  roses. 

Tenderly  beside  him  there. 

While  the  <;Iiild,  thus  clinging,  floated 
Toward  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 

Gazing  from  his  shining  guardian, 
To  tlie  flowers  upon  bis  brfasl, 

Tliu.H  tlie  angel  spake,  still  smiling 
()n  the  little  heavenly  guest: 

"  Know  dear  little  one,  that  heaven 
Does  no  earthly  thing  disdain — 


Man's  poor  joys  find  there  an  echo 

Just  as  surely  as  his  pain ; 
Love,  on  earth  so  feebly  striving, 

Lives  divine  in  heaven  again ! 

"  Once  in  that  great  town  below  UB, 

In  a  poor  and  narrow  street, 
Dwelt  a  little  sickly  orphan ; 

Gentle  aid,  or  pity  sweet. 
Never  in  life's  rugged  pathway 

Guided  hi.s  poor  tottering  feet. 

"  All  the  striving,  anxious  forethought 
That  should  only  come  with  age, 

Weighed  upon  his  baby  spirit. 
Showed  him  soon  life's  sternest  page. 

Grim  want  was  his  nurse,  and  sorrow 
Was  his  only  heritage. 

"  All  too  weak  for  childish  pastimes, 

Drearily  the  hours  sped  ; 
On  his  hands,  so  small  and  trembling. 

Leaning  his  poor  aching  head, 
Or  through  dark  and  painful  hours 

Lying  helpless  on  his  bed. 

"  Dreaming  strange  and  longing  fancies 

Of  cool  forests  far  away  ; 
And  of  rosy,  happy  children. 

Laughing  merrily  at  play, 
Coming  home  through  green  lanes,  bearing 

Trailing  boughs  of  blooming  May. 

"  Scarce  a  glimpse  of  azure  heaven 
Gleamed  above  that  narrow  street. 

And  the  sultry  air  of  summer 
(That  you  call  so  warm  and  sweet) 

Fevered  the  poor  orphan,  dwelling 
In  that  crowded  alley's  heat. 

"  One  bright  day,  with  feeble  footsteps 
Slowly  forth  ho  tried  to  crawl. 

Through  the  crowded  city's  pathways, 
Till  ho  reached  the  garden  wall ; 

Whore  'mid  princely  halls  an<l  maiiHiona 
Stood  the  lor<lli<!st  of  all. 

"  There  were  trees  with  giant  branches, 
Velvet  glades  where  shadows  hide  ; 


fH£  ANGELS  StORY. 


6;59 


There  were  s{)arkling  fountains  glancing 
Flowers  which,  in  luxuriant  pnJe, 

Ever  wafted  breaths  of  perfume 
To  the  child  who  stood  outside. 

"  He  against  the  gate  of  iron 

Pressed  his  wan  and  wistful  face, 

Gazing  with  an  awe-struck  pleasure 
At  the  glories  of  the  place : 

Never  had  his  brightest  day-dream 
Shone  with  half  such  wondrous  grace. 

"  You  were  playing  in  that  garden, 
Throwing  blossoms  in  the  air, 

Laughing  when  the  petals  floated 
Downward  on  your  golden  hair; 

And  the  fond  eyes  watching  o'er  you, 

And  the  splendor  spread  before  you, 
Told  a  house's  hope  was  there. 

"  When  your  servants,  tired  of  seeing 

Such  a  face  of  want  and  woe, 
Turning  to  the  ragged  orphan. 

Gave  him  coin  and  bade  him  go, 
Down  his  cheeks  so  thin  and  wasted 

Bitter  tears  began  to  flow. 

But  that  look  of  childish  sorrow 

On  your  tender  child-heart  fell. 
And  you  plucked  the  reddest  roses 

From  the  tree  you  loved  so  well, 
Passed  them  through  the  stern,  cold  gra- 
ting, 

Gently  bidding  him  '  Farewell !' 

Dazzled  by  the  fragrant  treasure 

And  the  gentle  voice  he  heard, 
In  the  poor  forlorn  boy's  spirit 

Joy,  the  sleeping  seraph,  stirred  ; 
In  bis  hand  he  took  the  flowers. 

In  his  heart  the  loving  word. 

So  he  crept  to  his  poor  garret : 

Poor  no  more,  but  rich  and  bright, 
For  the  holy  dreams  of  childhood — 

Love,  and  Rest,  and  Hope,  and  Light — 
Floated  round  the  orphan's  pillow. 

Through  the  starry  summer  night. 

"  Day  dawned,  yet  the  vision  lasted — 
All  too  weak  to  rise  he  lay ; 


l)id  lie  iln-am  that  none  .i^pake  harshly — 
All  were  strangely  kind  that  day  ? 

Purely,  then,  his  treasured  roses 
Must  have  charmed  all  ills  away. 

"  And  he  smiled,  though  they  were  fading 
One  by  one  their  leaves  were  shed ; 

'  Such  bright  things  could  never  perieh  : 
They  would  bloom  again,'  he  said. 

When  the  next  day's  sun  had  risen 
Child  and  flowers  both  were  dead 


"  Know,  dear  little  one !  our  Father 
Will  no  gentle  deed  disdain ; 

Love  on  the  cold  earth  beginning 
Lives  divine  in  heaven  again, 

While  the  angel  hearts  that  beat  there 
Still  all  tender  thoughts  retain." 

So  the  angel  ceased,  and  gently 

O'er  his  little  burden  leant ; 
While  the  child  gazed  from  the  shining. 

Loving  eyes  that  o'er  him  bent. 
To  the  blooming  roses  by  him. 

Wondering  what  their  mystery  mean: 

Thus  the  radiant  angel  answered, 
And  with  tender  meaning  smiled : 

"  Ere  your  childlike,  loving  spirit 
Sin  and  the  hard  world  defiled, 

God  has  given  me  leave  to  seek  you-  - 
I  was  once  that  little  child  !" 
*  *  *  *  » 

In  the  churchyard  of  that  city 

Rose  a  tomb  of  marble  rare. 
Decked,  as  soon  as  spring  awakened. 

With  her  buds  and  blossoms  fair— 
And  a  humble  grave  beside  it — 

None  knew  who  rested  there. 


640 


GOLDEN  GRAINS. 


GOLDEN  GRAINS. 


JAMES    A.    GARFIELD. 


SELECTED    FROM    VARIOUS    ORATIONS. 


^1»  FEEL  a  profounder  reverence  for    a 

W^        Boy  than  for  a  Man.     I  never  meet 

f^        a  ragged  Boy  in  the  street  without 

4'ii^  feeling  that  I  may  owe  him  a  salute, 
for  I  know  not  what  possibilities 
may  be  buttoned  up  under  his  coat. 

Poverty  is  uncomfortable,  as  I  can  testify ; 
but  nine  times  out  of  ten  the  best  thing 
that  can  happen  to  a  young  man  is  to 
be  tossed  overboard  and  compelled  to 
sink  or  swim  for  himself.  In  all  ray 
acquaintance  I  never  knew  a  man  to  be 
drowned  who  was  worth  the  saving. 

There  are  times  in  the  history  of  men  and 
nations,  when  they  stand  so  near  the 
veil  that  separates  Mortals  and  Immor- 
tals, Time  from  Eternity,  and  Men  from 
their  God,  that  they  can  almost  hear 
their  breathings  and  feel  the  pulsations 
of  the  heart  of  the  Infinite. 

Growth  is  better  than  Permanence,  and  jicr- 
manent  growth  is  better  than  all. 

It  is  no  honor  or  profit  merely  to  appear  in 
the  arena.  The  Wreath  is  for  those  who 
contend. 

There  is  a  fellowship  among  the  Virtues  by 
which  one  great,  generous  passion  stimu- 
lates another. 

The  privilege  of  being  a  Young  Man  is  a 
great  i)rivilege,  and  the  privilege  of 
growing  up  to  bo  an  independent  Man 
in  middle  life  is  a  greater. 

Many  books  we  can  road  in  a  railroad  car 
and  feel  a  harmony  between  the  rushing 
of  the  train  and  the  haste  of  the  Author. 

If  the  power  to  do  hard  work  is  not  Talent, 
it  is  the  best  possible  substitute  for  it. 

Occasion  may  be  the  huglc-rall  that  summons 
an  army  to  batth\  but  the  blast  of  a 
bugle  can  nover  make  Soldiers  or  win 
VictoricB. 

ThingR  don't  turn  up  in  tliis  World  until 
somebody  turnfl  thorn  up. 


If  there  be  one  thing  upon  this  earth  thai 
mankind  love  and  admire  better  than 
another,  it  is  a  brave  Man — it  is  a  man 
who  dares  look  the  Devil  in  the  face 
and  tell  him  he  is  a  Devil. 

True  art  is  but  the  anti-type  of  Nature — 
the  embodiment  of  discovered  Beauty  m 
utility. 

Every  character  is  the  joint  product  of  Nature 
and  Nurture. 

Not  a  man  of  Iron,  but  of  Live  Oak. 

Power  exhibits  itself  under  two  distinct 
forms — strength  and  force — each  pos- 
sessing peculiar  qualities  and  each  perfect 
in  its  own  sphere.  Strength  is  typified 
by  the  Oak,  the  Rock,  the  Mountain. 
Force  embodies  ifc?elf  in  the  Cataract, 
the  Tempest,  the  Thunderbolt. 

As  a  giant  Tree  absorbs  all  the  elements  of 
growth  within  its  reach  and  leaves  only 
a  sickly  Vegetation  in  its  shadow,  so  do 
towering  great  Men  absorb  all  the 
strength  and  glory  of  their  surroundings 
and  leave  a  dearth  of  Greatness  for  a 
whole  generation. 

It  has  been  fortunate  that  most  of  our  great- 
est Men  have  left  no  descendants  to 
shine  in  the  borrowed  lustre  of  a  great 
name. 

In  order  to  liave  any  success  in  life,  or  any 
worthy  success,  you  must  resolve  to 
carry  into  your  work  a  fullness  of 
Knowledge — not  merely  a  Sufficiency, 
but  more  tlian  a  Sufficiency. 

Be  fit  for  mor''  tlian  tlio  thing  you  are  now 
doing. 

Young  Men  talk  of  trusting  to  the  Spur  oi 
the  0(X"vsion.  That  trust  is  vain.  Occa- 
sions cannot  make  Spurs.  If  you  expect 
to  wear  Spurs  you  mu.''t  win  them.  It 
you  wisli  to  use  them  you  must  buckle 
them  to  your  own  hifls  lirforo  you  go 
into  the  Fight. 


FOR  CHARLIE'S  SAKE. 


641 


That  man  will  be  a  benefactor  of  bis  race 
who  shall  teach  us  how  to  manage 
rightly  the  first  years  of  a  Child's  educa- 
tion. 

Great  Ideas  travel  slowly  and  for  a  time 
noiselessly,  as  the  Gods  whose  Feet  were 
shod  with  wool. 

He  who  would  understand  the  real  Spirit  of 
Literature  should  not  select  authors  of 
any  one  period  alone,  but  rather  go  to 
the  fountain-head,  and  trace  the  little 
rill  as  it  courses  along  down  the  ages, 
broadening  and  deepening  into  the  great 
ocean  of  Thought  which  the  Men  of  the 
present  are  exjdoring. 

Eternity  alone  will  reveal  to  the  human  race 
its  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  peerless  and 
immortal  name  of  Washington. 

The  scientific  spirit  has  cast  out  the  Demons 
and  presented  us  with  Nature,  clothed 
in  her  right  mind  and  living  under  the 
reign  of  law.  It  has  given  us  for  the 
sorceries  of  the  Alchemist,  the  beautiful 
laws  of  Chemistry ;  for  the  dreams  of 
the  Astrologer,  the  sublime  truths  of 
astronomy  :  for  the  wild  visions  of  Cos- 
mogony, the  monumental  records  of 
geology  ;  for  the  anarchy  of  Diabolism, 
the  laws  of  God. 

We  no  longer  attribute  the  untimely  death 
of  infants  to  the  sin  of  Adam,  but  to 
bad  nursing  and  ignorance. 


Imagine  if  you  can  what  would  hajipen  if 
to-morrow  morning  the  railway  locomo- 
tive and  its  corollary,  the  telegraph, 
were  blotted  from  the  earth.  To  what 
humble  proportions  Mankind  would  be 
compelled  to  scale  down  the  great  enter- 
prizes  they  are  now  pu.<hing  forward 
with  such  ease  ! 

Heroes  did  not  make  our  liberties,  they  but 
reflected  and  illustrated  thern. 

The  Life  and  light  of  a  nation  are  insepar 
rable. 

We  confront  the  dangers  of  Suffrage  by  the 
blessings  of  universal  education. 

There  is  no  horizontal  Stratification  of  society 
in  this  country  like  the  rocks  in  the 
earth,  that  hold  one  class  down  below 
forevermore,  and  let  another  come  to 
the  surface  to  stay  there  forever.  Our 
Stratification  is  like  the  ocean,  where 
every  individual  drop  is  free  to  move, 
and  where  from  the  sternest  depths  of 
the  mighty  deep  any  drop  may  come  up 
to  glitter  on  the  highest  wave  that  rolls. 

There  is  deep  down  in  the  -hearts  of  the 
American  people  a  strong  and  abiding 
love  of  our  Country  which  no  surface 
storms  of  passion  can  ever  shake. 

Our  National  safety  demands  that  the  foun- 
tains of  political  power  shall  be  made 
pure  by  Intelligence  and  kept  pure  by 
Vigilance. 


FOR  CHARLIE'S  SAKE. 


JOHN   W.    PALMER. 


^-i 


^HE  night  is  late,  the  house  is  still ; 

The  angels  of  the  hour  fulfil 
^^T  Their  tender  ministries,  and  move 

From  couch  to  couch  in  cares  of  love. 

They  drop  into  thy  dreams,  sweet 
wife, 

The  happiest  smile  of  Charlie's  life, 
And  lay  on  baby's  lips  a  kiss. 
Fresh  from  his  angel-brother's  bliss ; 
And,  as  they  pass,  they  seem  to  make 


dim    hvmn,    "  For    Charlie's 


A    strange, 
sake." 
My  listening  heart  takes  up  the  strain, 
And  gives  it  to  the  night  again, 
Fitted  with  words  of  lowly  praise. 
And  patience  learned  of  mournful  days 
And  memories  of  the  dead  child's  ways. 

His  will  be  done,  His  will  be  done  ! 
Who  gare  and  took  away  my  son, 


642 


LIFE. 


In  "  the  far  land  "  to  shine  and  sing 
Before  the  Beautiful,  the  King, 
Who  every  day  doth  Christmas  make, 
All  starred  and  belled  for  Charlie's  sake. 

For  Charlie's  sake  I  will  arise ; 
I  will  anoint  me  where  he  lies. 
And  change  my  raiment,  and  go  in 
To  the  Lord's  house,  and  leave  my  sin 


Without,  and  seat  me  at  his  board. 
Eat,  and  be  glad,  and  praise  the  Lord. 

For  wherefore  should  I  fast  and  weep. 

And  sullen  moods  of  mourning  keep  ? 

I  cannot  bring  him  back,  nor  he. 

For  any  calling,  come  to  me. 

The  bond  the  angel  Death  did  sign,  ■ 

God  sealed — for  Charlie's  sake  and  mifc*. 


THE  BRIDE. 


SIR   JOHN  SUCKLING. 


] 


i^IIE  maid,  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 
For  such  a  maid  no  Whitsun-ale 

Could  ever  yet  produce  : 
No  grape  that's  kindly  ripe  could  be 
So  round,  so  plump,  so  soft  as  she, 
Nor  half  so  full  of  juice. 


Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 

Would  not  stay  on  which  they  did  bring,- 

It  was  too  wide  a  peck  ; 
And,  to  say  truth, — for  out  it  must, — 
It  looked  like  the  great  collar — just — 

About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

Her  feet,  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  feared  the  light ; 
But  0,  she  dances  such  a  way  ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter-day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 


Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on, 
No  daisy  makes  comparison  ; 

Who  sees  them  is  undone  ; 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there, 
Such  as  are  on  a  Cath'rine  pear. 

The  side  that's  next  the  sun. 

Her  lips  were  red ;   and  one  was  thin, 
Compared  to  that  was  next  her  chin. 

Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly ; 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze. 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 

Her  mouth  so  small,  when  she  does  speak, 
Thou'dst  swear  her  teeth  her  words  did  breaa, 

That  they  might  passage  get ; 
But  she  so  handled  still  the  matter, 
They  came  as  good  as  ours,  or  better, 

And  arc  not  spent  a  whit. 


LIFE. 


HENRY    KINC, 


IKE  to  the  falling  of  a  star. 
Or  as  the  flighta  of  eagles  are, 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 
f)v  silver  drofis  of  morning  dew, 
()r  like  a  wind  that  chafijH  the  Hood. 
Or  hubbies  which  on  water  stood, — 


E'en  such  i.s  niaii,  wlio.si:  borrowed  li^ht 
Isstraiglit  called  in,  and  |)aid  to  night, 
The  witHJ  blow.'^  out,  the  bubble  dies, 
The  Hjiring  entombed  in  autumn  lies, 
Tlie  dew  dries  up,  tlio  star  is  shot. 
The  flight  is  past, — and  man  forgot  I 


HABITS  OF  TROUT. 


643 


HABITS  OF  TROUT. 


WILLIAM    C.    PRIME. 


^i 


IT  is  noteworthy,  and  has  doubtless  often  attracted  the 
of  anglers,  that  different  books "  give 
totally  different  instructions  and  infor- 
mation about  the  same  fish.  This  is 
•  easily  explained.  Most  of  the  writer- 
on  angling  have  written  from  experience  ob- 
tained in  certain  waters.  One  who  has  taken 
trout  for  a  score  of  years  in  the  St.  Pcegis 
waters  forms  his  opinion  of  these  fish  from 
their  habits  in  those  regions.  But  a  St.  Regis 
trout  is  no  more  like  a  Welakennebacook  trout 
in  his  habits  than  a  Boston  gentleman  is 
to  a  New  Yorker.  Who  would  think  of  de- 
scribing the  habits  and  customs  of  mankind 
from  a  knowledge  of  the  Englishman  ?  Yet 
we  have  abundance  of  book-lore  on  the  habits 
of  fish,  founded  on  acquaintance  with  the  fish 
in  one  or  another  locality.  To  say  truth,  until 
one  has  studied  the  habits  of  trout  in  all  the 
waters  of  the  world,  it  is  unsafe  for  him  to  ven- 
ture any  general  account  of  those  habits. 

Take  the  simplest  illustration.  If  you  are 
on  the  lower  St.  Regis,  and  seek  large  trout, 
rise  before  the  sun,  and  cast  for  the  half  hour 
preceding  and  the  half  hour  following  sunrise. 
You  will  find  the  fish  plenty  and  voracious, 
striking  with  vigor,  and  evidently  on  the  feed. 
But  go  to  Profile  Lake  (that  g^m  of  all  the 
world  of  waters),  wherein  I  have  taken  many 
thousand  trout,  and  you  will  scarcely  ever  have 
a  rise  in  the  morning.  In  the  one  lake  the  fish 
are  in  the  habit  of  feeding  at  day-dawn.  In  the 
>>ther  no  trout  breakfasts  till  nine  o'clock,  unless, 
like  the  departing  guests  of  the  neighboring 
hotel,  business  or  pleasure  lead  him  to  be  up  for 
once  at  an  early  hour. 


attention 


/ 


^n 


644 


'NO  MORE  sea;- 


So,  too,  you  may  cast  on  Profile  Lake  at  noon  in  the  sunshine,  and  as 
in  most  waters,  though  the  trout  are  abundant,  they  will  not  be  tempted 
to  rise.  But  in  Echo  Lake,  only  a  half-mile  distant,  where  trout  are 
scarce,  I  have  killed  many  fish  of  two  and  three  pounds'  weight,  and  nearly 
all  between  eleven  and  one  in  bright,  sunshiny  weather.  In  fact,  when 
they  rise  at  all  in  Echo  Lake,  it  is  almost  invariably  at  that  hour,  and 
very  seldom  at  any  other.  Men  have  their  hours  of  eating,  settled  into 
what  we  call  habits.  The  Bostonian  dines  at  one  hour,  the  New  Yorker 
at  another.  One  should  not  attempt  to  describe  the  eating  habits  of  man 
in  general  from  either  class,  or  from  both.  In  many  respects  the  habits  of 
fish  are  formed,  as  are  the  habits  of  men,  by  the  force  of  circumstances,  or 
by  the  influence  of  the  imitative  propensity.  They  do  some  things  only 
because  they  have  seen  other  fish  do  so.  Instinct  leads  them  to  some 
habits,  education  to  others. 


r^fer 


"  NO  MORE  SEA." 


WILLIAM    H.    HENDERSON. 


Ipfe,  LONELY,  exiled  one ! 


Sliall  wo  not  tlion  hcsido 
^KM     '^^'°°  *'^^'^  Patmos  shore  I  see  thee  I  y,„ye  friend  or  brother,  count  fn.in  pclhly 


f 


Thou  dreamest  gravely  of  thine  own 
dear  land, 
Far  hy  the  rising  sun. 


Thinking  of  Galileo, 
And  the  hoarse  waves  that  jiart  th<<-  from  its 

shore, 
Not  strange  it  spems  to  liear  thee  nmriiiuriiig 
o'er 

Thy  song  of  "  No  More  Sea." 


The  white-winged  ships  as  far  an  eye  can 
reach 

On  tlie  horizon  wide  ? 


Alas  !  ami  no  inoro  sea '' 
No  grey  cloud  nliadows    flickering  o'er    'ihe 

deep  ? 
No  furling  liroakers  hy  the  rocky  steep 

Or  beachy  short!  ?    Ah,  mel 


ECHOES. 


045 


No  more  in  foamy  spray 
Shall   we   with   merry  jest  and   full-voiced 

laughter 
Delight  ourselves,  and  breast  the  surges  after 

The  dust  and  heat  of  day  ? 

Shall  there  be  no  more  shells  ? 
Nor   golden    sand  ?     Nor   crimson   sea-weed 

shine — 
Nor  pearls,  nor  coral  that  beneath  the  brine 

Adorn  the  ocean  cells  ? 

On  balmy  summer  day 
^all  we  not  float  in  dainty  skiff  along, 
A.nd  suit  the  dipping  oar  to  choral  song. 

Upon  some  sheltered  bay  ? 


Its  pure,  chaste  lips  shall  never  cea'-e  to  kiss 
Its  sister  earth  so  dear. 

A  darker,  sadder  sea 
Spreads  its  drear  waste  before  the  prophet's 

eye-- 
A  sea  of  sin  across  whiih  floats  the  sigh 

Of  fallen  humanity. 

And  surges  of  d.i:  k  thought 
And  angry  pa.ssion  loom  upon  its  face, 
Telling  the  ruin  of  a  shi[) wrecked  race. 

In  countless  cr-nturies  wrought. 

This  is  tlie  great  Red  Sea, 
Whose  waves  shall  yet  at  God's  owa  voice 
roll  back, 


Yes,  apostolic  seer; 
Not    of   the    watery    brine    thou    tellest 
this; 


That  through   the   pathway  His  redeemed 
may  walk. 
Safe,  fearless,  joyful,  free. 


ECHOES. 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


^I^^OW  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 
P^M  To  Music  at  night 

,^^^X|     When,  roused  by  lute  or  horn,  she 
wakes, 
And  far  away  o'er  lawns  and  lakes 
Goes  answering  light! 


Yet  Love  hath  echoes  truer  far 

And  far  more  sweet 
Than  e'er,  beneath  the  moonlight's  stM 
Of  horn  or  lute  or  soft  guitar 

The  songs  repeat. 


646  SOFT  SAWDER  AND  HUMAN  NATUR. 


SOFT  SA  WDER  AND  HUMAN  NATUR. 


THOMAS   C.    HALIBURTON. 


pliN  the  course  of  a  journey  which  Mr.  Slick  performs  in  company  with 
Ps  the  reporter  of  his  humors,  the  latter  asks  him  how,  in  a  country  so 
4.'.^  poor  as  Nova  Scotia  he  contrives  to  sell  so  many  clocks.  "  Mr. 
%  Slick  paused,"  continues  the  author,  "as  if  considering  the  propriety 
f  of  answering  the  question,  and  looking  me  in  the  face,  said,  in  a  con- 
1  fidential  tone :  '  Why,  I  don't  care  if  I  do  tell  you,  for  the  market  is 
glutted,  and  I  shall  quit  this  circuit.  It  is  done  by  a  knowledge  of  soft 
sawder  QXidi.  human  natur.  But  here; — I  have  just  one  left.  Neighbor 
Steel's  wife  asked  to  have  the  refusal  of  it,  but  I  guess  I  won't  sell  it.  I 
had  but  two  of  them,  this  one  and  the  feller  of  it,  that  I  sold  Governor 
Lincoln.  General  Green,  secretary  of  state  for  Maine,  said  he'd  give  me 
fifty  dollars  for  this  here  one — it  has  composition  wheels  and  patent  axles; 
it  is  a  beautiful  article — a  real  first  chop — no  mistake,  genuine  superfine ; 
but  I  guess  I'll  take  it  back ;  and,  besides,  Squire  Hawk  might  think  it 
hard  that  I  did  not  give  him  the  oflfer.' 

'"Dear  me,'  said  Mrs.  Flint,  'I  should  like  to  see  it;  where  is  it?' 
*  It  is  in  a  chest  of  mine  over  the  way,  at  Tom  Tape's  store ;  I  guess  he 
can  ship  it  on  to  Eastport.'  'That's  a  good  man,'  said  Mrs.  Flint,  'jist 
let's  look  at  it.'  Mr.  Slick,  willing  to  oblige,  yielded  to  these  entreaties, 
and  soon  produced  the  clock — a  gaudy,  highly  varnished,  trumpery-look- 
ing affair.  He  placed  it  on  the  chimney-piece,  where  its  beauties  were 
pointed  out  and  duly  appreciated  by  Mrs.  Flint,  whoso  admiration  was  about 
ending  in  a  proposal,  when  Mr.  Flint  returned  from  giving  his  directions 
about  the  care  of  the  horses.  The  deacon  praised  the  clock ;  he,  too, 
thought  it  a  handsome  one ;  but  the  deacon  was  a  prudent  man  :  he  had 
a  watch,  he  was  sorry,  but  he  had  no  occasion  for  a  clock.  '  I  guess  you're 
in  the  wrong  furrow  this  time,  deacon  ;  it  ain't  for  sale,'  said  Mr.  Slick ; 
'  and  if  it  was,  I  reckon  neighbor  Steele's  wife  would  have  it,  for  she  gives 
mo  no  peace  about  it.'  Mrs.  Flint  said  that  Mr.  Steele  had  enough  to  do, 
poor  man,  to  pay  his  interest,  without  buyiiig  docks  for  his  wife.  '  It's 
no  consaiTi  of  ininf;,'  said  Mr.  Slick,  '  as  long  as  ho  pays  mo,  what  ho  h;ia 
to  do  ;  but  1  guess  I  don't  want  to  sell  it;  and,  besido,  it  comes  too  high  ; 
that  clock  can't  bo  made  at  lihodo  Island  under  forty  <lr)llars. 

"'Why,  it  un't  {)OSHiblo!'  said  the  Clockmakor,  in  apjuront  surprise, 
looking  at  his  watcli,  '  why,  as  I'm  alive,  it  is  four  o'clock,  and  if  I  haven't 
been  two  hours  hero — how  on  airtli  shall  I  roach  Rivor  Philip  to-night? 
I'll  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Flint;  I'll  leave  the  clock  in  your  care  till  I  return 


NIAGARA. 


647 


on  my  way  to  the  States — I'll  set  it  agoing,  and  put  it  to  the  right  time.' 
As  soon  as  this  operation  was  performed,  he  delivered  the  key  to  the  deacon 
with  a  sort  of  serio-comic  injunction  to  wind  up  the  clock  every  Saturday 
night,  which  Mrs.  Flint  said  she  would  take  care  should  be  done,  and 
promised  to  remind  her  husband  of  it,  in  case  he  should  chance  to  for- 
got it. 

"  '  That,'  said  the  Clockmaker,  as  soon  as  we  were  mounted,  '  that  I 
call  human  natur  !  Now,  that  clock  is  sold  for  forty  dollars — it  cost  me 
six  dollars  and  fifty  cents.  Mrs.  Flint  will  never  let  Mrs.  Steele  have  the 
refusal — nor  will  the  deacon  learn  until  I  call  for  the  clock,  that  having 
once  indulged  in  the  use  of  a  superfluity,  it  is  difficult  to  give  it  up.  We 
can  do  without  any  article  of  luxury  we  have  never  had,  but  when  once 
obtained,  it  is  not  in  human  natur  to  surrender  it  voluntarily.  Of  fifteen 
thousand  sold  by  myself  and  partners  in  this  province,  twelve  thousand 
were  left  in  this  manner,  only  ten  clocks  were  ever  returned — when  we 
called  for  them,  they  invariably  bought  them.  We  trust  to  soft  sawder 
to  get  them  into  the  house,  and  to  human  natur  that  they  never  come  out 
of  it." 


NIAGARA. 


LYDIA  HUNTLY  SIGOURNEY. 


5LOW  on  forever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty.     Yes,  flow 

on, 
UnfathomV]  and  resistless.  God  hath 

set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead,  and 

the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet. — And  he 
doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder  power  to  speak  of  him 
Eternally, — bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence,  and  upon  thy  rocky  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise. 

And  who  can  dare 
To  lift  the  insect  trump  of  earthly  hope. 
Or  love,  or  sorrow,  'mid  the  peal  sublime 
Of   thy   tremendous  hymn  ? — Even    Ocean 

shrinks 
Back  from   thy  brotherhood,  and    his  wild 

waves 
Retire  abash'd. — For  he  doth  sometimes  seem 


To  sleep  like  a  spent  laborer,  and  recall 
His  wearied  billows  from  their  vexing  play, 
And  lull  them  to  a  cradle  calm  :  but  thou, 
With  everlasting,  undecaying  tide, 
Dost  rest  not  night  or  da_v. 

The  morning  stars, 
When  first  they  sang  o'er  young  creation's 

birth, 
Heard  thy  deep  anthem, — and  those  wreck- 
ing fires 
That  wait  the  archangel's  signal  to  dissolve 
The  solid  earth,  shall  find  Jehovah's  name 
Graven,  as  with  a  thousand  diamond  spears, 
On  thine  unfathom'd  page. — Each  leaf)' bough 
That  lifts  itself  within  thy  proud  domain, 
Doth  gather  greenness  from  thy  living  spray. 
And  tremble  at  the  baptism. — Lo  !  yon  birds 
Do  venture  boldly  near,  bathing  their  wing 
Amid  thy  foam  and  mist. — 'Tismeet  for  them 
To  touch  thy  garment's  hem^ — or  lightly  stir 
The  snowy  leaflets  of  thy  vapor  wreath, — 


648  FINGAL'S  CAVE. 


Who  sport  unharm'd  upon  the  fleecy  cloud,      I  Thou  dost  make  the  soul 

And  listen  at  the  echoing  gate  of  heaven,        '  A  wondering  witness  of  thy  majesty  ; 
Without  reproof.— But  as  for  us, — it  seems         And  while  it  rushes  with  delirious  joy 
Scarce  lawful  with  our  broken  tones  to  speak      To  tread  thy  vestibule,  dost  chain  its  step, 
Familiarly  of  thee. — Methinks,  to  tint  And  check  its  rapture  with  the  humbling  view 

Thy  glorious  features  with  our  pencil's  point,      Of  its  own  nothingness,  bidding  it  stand 
Or  woo  thee  to  the  tablet  of  a  song,  j  In  the  dread  presence  of  the  Invisible 

Were  profanation.  As  if  to  answer  to  its  God  through  thee. 


FINGAL'S  CA  VR 


WM^  t.he  volcanic  rocks,  cavern  formations  are  very  common,  and  one  of 

^^     the  most  splendid  examples  in  the  world  occurs  in  the  basalt,  a  rock 

aC     of  comparatively  modern  igneous  origin.     This  is  the  well-known 

*       cave  of  Fingal,  in  the  island  of  Staffa,  a  small  island  on  the  western 

f       coast  of  Scotland,  composed  entirely  of  amorphous  and  pillared  basalt. 

1        The  name  of  the  island  is  derived  from  its  singular  structure,  Staffa, 

signifying,  in   the  Norwegian  language,  a  people  who  were  early  on  the 

coast,  a  staff",  and  figuratively,  a  column.     The   basaltic  columns  have  in 

various  places  yielded  to  the  action  of  the  waves,  which  have  scooped  out 

caves  of  the  most  picturosque  descrij)tion,  the  chief  of  which  are  the  Boat 

cave,  the  Cormorant  cave,  so  called  from  the  number  of  these  birds  visiting 

the  spot,  and  the  great  cave  of  Fingal. 

It  is  remarkable  that  this  grand  natural  object  should  have  remained 
comparatively  unknown,  until  Sir  Joseph  Banks  had  his  attention  acci- 
dentally directed  to  it,  and  may  be  said  to  have  discovered  it  to  the  inhab- 
itants of  South  Britain.  This  great  cave  consists  of  a  lava-like  mass  at 
the  base,  and  of  two  ranges  of  basaltic  columns  resting  upon  it,  which 
present  to  the  eye  an  a[)pearancc  of  regularity  almost  architectural,  and 
fiupporting  an  irregular  ceiling  of  rock.  According  to  the  measurements 
of  Sir  Joseph  Banks,  the  cave  from  the  rock  without  is  three  liundred 
and  .seventy-one  feet  six  inches;  the  breadth  j'.t  the  mouth,  fifty-three  feet 
seven  inches ;  the  height  of  the  arch  at  the  mouth,  one  hundred  and  seven- 
t<^jen  feet  six  inches;  depth  of  water  at  the  mouth,  eighteen  feet;  and  at 
tlic  bottom  of  tli(^  cave,  nine  feet.  Tho  ocjio  of  the;  waves  which  wash 
into  the  cavern  has  originated  its  C(^ltic  natnc,  Llaimbh-bim,  the  Cave  of 
Music.  MacuUoch  remarks  :  "  If  too  much  admiration  lias  been  lavished 
on  it  by  some,  and  if,  in  consoquenco,  mon^  n-cont  visitors  have  left  it  with 
disa{)[)ointment,  it  must  ho  recollectod,  that  all  descriptions  arc  but  pictures 
*f  the  feelings  of  the  narrator ;  it  is,  moreover,  as  unreasonable  to  expect 


FINGALS  CAVE. 


649 


that  the  same  objects  should  produce  corresponding  effects  on  all  minds, 
on  the  enlightened  and  on  the  vulgar,  as  that  every  individual  should 
alike  be  sensible  to  the  merits  of  Phidias  and  Eaphael,  of  Sophocles  and 
of  Shakespeare. 

But  if  this  cave  were  even  destitute  of  that  order  and  symmetry,  that 
richness  arising  from  multiplicity  of  parts  combined  with  greatness   of 


dimension  and  simplicity  of  style,  which  it  possesses ,  still  the  prolonged 
length,  the  twilight  gloom  half  concealing  the  playful  and  varying  effects 
of  reflected  light,  the  echo  of  the  measured  surge  as  it  rises  and  falls,  the 
transparent  green  of  the  water,  and  the  profound  and  fi\iry  solitude  of  the 
whole  scene,  could  not  fail  strongly  to  impress  a  miiid  gifted  with  any  sense 
of  beauty  in  art  or  in  nature,  and  it  will  be  compelled  to  own  it  is  not 
without  cause  that  celebrity  has  been  conferred  on  ^he  Cave  of  Fingal," 


650 


THE  CELESTIAL  COUNTRY. 


THE  CELESTIAL  COUNTRY. 


BEENARD  DE  MORLAIX,  A.  D., 


1U5. 


^1^0 R  thee,  O  dear,  dear  Country  ! 
^^jlj  Mine  eyes  their  vigils  keep ; 

fl|-f      For  very  love  beholding 
^'•%  Thy  happiness,  they  weep. 

*'       The  mention  of  thy  glory, 
Jr  Is  unction  to  the  breast, 

J       And  medicine  in  sickness, 

And  love,  and  life,  and  rest. 

0  one,  0  only  Mansion  ! 

0  Paradise  of  Joy  ! 
Where  tears  are  ever  banished. 

And  smiles  have  no  alloy, 
Beside  thy  living  waters, 

All  plants  are  great  and  small, 
The  cedar  of  the  forest, 

The  hyssop  of  the  wall ; 
With  jaspers  glow  thy  bulwarks, 

Thy  streets  with  emeralds  blaze, 
The  sardius  and  topaz 

Unite  in  thee  their  rays  ; 
Thine  ageless  walls  are  bonded 

With  amethyst  unpriced ; 
The  saints  build  up  its  fabric. 

And  the  corner-stone  is  Christ 

The  Cross  is  all  thy  splendor, 

The  Crucified  thy  praise ; 
His  laud  and  benediction 

Thy  ransomed  people  raise  : 
•*  Jesus,  the  Gem  of  Beauty, 

True  God  and  Man,"  they  sing, 
"The  never-failing  Garden, 

The  evftr-gfilden  Ring; 
Thr-  Door,  the  Pledge,  the  Husband, 

The  Guardian  of  His  Court; 
The  Day-star  of  Salvation, 

The  Porter  and  the  Port!" 

Thou  hast  no  shore,  fair  ocean  I 
Thou  hast  no  time,  bright  day  I 

Dear  fountain  of  refreshment 
To  pilprims  far  away  ! 

Upon  the  Rock  of  Aroh, 
They  raise  the  holy  tower  ; 


Thine  is  the  victor's  laurel, 
And  thine  the  golden  dower  f 

Thou  feel'st  in  mystic  rapture, 

0  Bride  that  know'st  no  guil*^ 
The  Prince's  sweetest  kisses, 

The  Prince's  loveliest  smile  ; 
Unfading  lilies,  bracelets 

Of  living  pearl,  thine  own; 
The  Lamb  is  ever  near  thee. 

The  Bridegroom  thine  alone. 
The  Crown  is  He  to  guerdon. 

The  Buckler  to  protect. 
And  He,  Himself  the  Mansion, 

And  He  the  Architect. 

The  only  art  thou  need'st — 

Thanksgiving  for  thy  lot : 
The  only  joy  thou  seek'st — 

The  Life  where  Death  is  not. 
And  all  thine  endless  leisure. 

In  sweetest  accents  sings 
The  ill  that  was  thy  merit, 

The  wealth  that  is  thy  King's! 

Jerusalem  the  golden, 

With  milk  and  honey  blest. 
Beneath  thy  contemplation 

Sink  heart  and  voice  oppressed. 
I  know  not,  0  I  know  not. 

What  social  joys  are  there  1 
What  radiancy  of  glory. 

What  light  beyond  compare! 

And  when  I  fain  would  sing  them, 
My  spirit  fails  and  faints ; 

And  vainly  would  it  imago 
The,  assembly  of  the  Saints. 

They  staml,  thoao  halls  of  Zion, 

All  jubilant  with  s<inR, 
And  bright  with  many  an  angel, 

And  all  tho  martyr  throng; 
The  Prince  is  ever  in  them. 

The  daylight  is  serene ; 
Tho  pastures  of  tho  Blessed 

Are  decked  in  glorious  sheea. 


THE  CELESTIAL  COUNTRY. 


651 


There  is  the  Throne  of  David, 

And  there,  from  care  released, 
The  song  of  them  that  triumj)h, 

The  shout  of  them  thai  feast ; 
And  they  who,  with  their  Leader, 

Have  conquered  in  the  fight, 
For  ever  and  for  ever 

Are  clad  in  robes  of  white! 

0  holy,  placid  harp-notes 

Of  that  eternal  hymn  ! 
0  sacred,  sweet  reflection, 

And  peace  of  Seraphim ! 
O  thirst,  forever  ardent. 

Yet  evermore  content ! 
O  true,  peculiar  vision 

Of  God  omnipotent ! 
Ye  know  the  many  mansions 

For  many  a  glorious  name, 
And  divers  retributions 

That  divers  merits  claim  ; 
For  midst  the  constellations 

That  deck  our  earthly  sky, 
This  star  than  that  is  brighter — 

And  so  it  is  on  high, 

Jerusalem  the  glorious ! 

The  glory  of  the  elect ! 
0  dear  and  future  vision 

That  eager  hearts  expect ! 
Even  now  by  faith  I  see  thee, 

Even  here  thy  walls  discern  ; 
To  thee  my  thoughts  are  kindled, 

And  strive,  and  pant,  and  yearn. 

O  none  can  tell  thy  bulwarks. 

How  glorious  they  rise  ! 
0  none  can  tell  thy  capitals 

Of  beautiful  device ! 
Thy  loveliness  oppresses 

All  human  thought  and  heart ; 
And  none,  0  peace,  0  Zion, 

Can  sing  thee  as  thou  art ! 

New  mansion  of  new  people. 
Whom  God's  own  love  and  light 

Promote,  increase,  make  holy, 
Identify,  unite ! 

Thou  City  of  the  Angels  I 
Thou  City  of  the  Lord  ! 


Whose  everlasting  music 
Is  the  glorious  decachord ! 

And  there  the  band  of  Propheta 

United  praise  ascribes. 
And  there  the  twelve-fold  choroa 

Of  Israel's  ransomed  tribes, 
The  lily-beds  of  virgins, 

The  roses'  martyr  glow, 
The  cohort  of  the  Fathers 

Who  kept  the  Faith  below, 

And  there  the  Sole-begotten 

Is  Lord  in  regal  state — 
He,  Judah's  mystic  Lion, 

He,  Lamb  Immaculate. 
0  fields  that  know  no  sorrow ! 

0  state  that  fears  no  strife ! 

0  princely  bowers  !  0  land  of  flowers  I 

0  realm  and  home  of  Life  ! 

Jerusalem,  f-xulting 
On  that  securest  shore, 

1  hope  thee,  wish  thee,  sing  thee, 
And  love  thee  ever  more  ! 

I  ask  not  for  my  merit, 

1  seek  not  to  deny 
My  merit  is  destruction, 

A  child  of  wrath  am  I ; 
But  j-et  with  Faith  I  venture, 

And  Hope  upon  my  way ; 
For  those  perennial  guerdons 

1  labor  night  and  day. 

The  best  and  dearest  Father, 

Who  made  me  and  who  saved, 
Bore  with  me  in  defilement. 

And  from  defilement  saved. 
When  in  His  strength  I  struggle, 

For  very  joy  I  leap, 
When  in  my  sin  I  totter, 

I  weep,  or  try  to  weep: 
But  grace,  sweet  grace  celestial, 

Shall  all  its  love  display, 
And  David's  Royal  fountain 

Purge  every  sin  away. 

0  mine,  my  golden  Zion! 

0  lovelier  far  than  golj. 
With  laurel-girt  battalions, 

And  safe  victorious  fold  I 


652 


ARCTIC  LIFE. 


0  sweet  and  blessed  Country, 

Exult,  0  dust  and  ashes ! 

Shall  I  ever  see  thy  face  ? 

The  Lord  shall  be  thy  part; 

0  sweet  and  blessed  Country, 

Ilis  only,  His  forever. 

Shall  I  ever  win  thy  grace  ? 

Thou  shalt  be,  and  thou  art ! 

I  have  the  hope  within  me 

Exult,  0  dust  and  ashes ! 

To  comfort  and  to  bless  ! 

The  Lord  shall  be  thy  part ; 

Shall  I  ever  win  the  prize  itaelf  ? 

His  only,  His  for  ever, 

0  tell  me,  tell  me,  Yes ! 

Thou  shalt  be,  and  thou  art ' 

ARCTIC  LIFE. 


ELISHA    KENT   KANE, 
•sale/*  

'W  do  we  spend  the  day  when  it  is  not  term-day,  or  rather  the 
twenty-four  hours?  for  it  is  either  all  day  here,  or  all   night,  or  a 
twilight  mixture  of  both.      How  do  we  spend   the    twenty-four 
I        hoars  ? 

J  At  six  in  the  morning,  McGary  is  called,  with  all  hands  who 

have,«^^  in.  The  decks  are  cleaned,  the  ice-hole  opened,  the  refreshing 
beef-nete  examined,  the  ice-tables  measured,  and  things  aboard  put  to 
rights.  At  half-pjist  seven,  all  hands  rise,  wash  on  deck,  open  the  doors 
for  ventilation,  and  come  below  for  breakfast.  We  are  short  of  fuel,  and 
th«jrefore  cook  in  tlic  <vabin.  Our  breakf;ist,  for  all  fare  alike,  is  hard  tack, 
[)ork,  stowed  apj)leH  frozen  like  molasses-candy,  tea  and  coffee,  with  a  deli- 
cAtc  portion  of  raw  potato.  After  brcakfa-st,  the  smokers  take  their  ])ipe 
till  nine :  then  all  hands  turn  to,  idl'-rs  to  idle,  and  workers  to  work ; 
OlilsoQ  to  his  bcncli ;  Brooks  to  his  "  preparations  "  in  canvass  ;  McGaiy 


ARCTIC  LIFE. 


ARCTIC  LIFE.  653 


to  play  tailor ;  Whipple  to  make  shoes ;  Bonsall  to  tinker ;  Baker  to  skin 
birds, — and  the  rest  to  the  "office  !  "  Take  a  look  into  the  Arctic  Bureau ! 
One  table,  one  salt-pork  lamp  with  rusty  chlorinated  flame,  three  stools, 
and  as  many  waxen-faced  men  with  their  legs  drawn  up  under  them,  the 
deck  at  zero  being  too  cold  for  the  feet.  Each  has  his  department :  Kane  is 
writing,  sketching,  and  projecting  maps  ;  Hayes  copying  logs  and  meteoro- 
logicals ;  Sontag  reducing  his  work  at  Fern  E,ock.  A  fourth,  as  one  of 
the  working  members  of  the  hive,  has  long  been  defunct:  you  will  find  him 
in  bed,  or  studying  "Littell's  Living  Age."  At  twelve,  a  business  round 
of  inspection,  and  orders  enough  to  fill  up  the  day  with  work.  Next,  the 
drill  of  the  Esquimaux  dbgs,- — ^my  own  peculiar  recreation, — a  dog-trot, 
especially  refreshing  to  legs  that  creak  with  every  kick,  and  rheumatic 
shoulders  that  chronicle  every  descent  of  the  whip.  And  so  we  get  on  to 
dinner-time ;  the  occasion  of  another  gathering,  which  misses  the  tea  and 
coffee  of  breakfast,  but  rejoices  in  pickled  cabbage  and  dried  peaches 
instead. 

At  dinner  as  at  breakfast  the  raw  potato  comes  in,  our  hygienic  lux- 
ury. Like  doctor  stuff  generally,  it  is  not  as  appetizing  as  desirable. 
Grating  it  down  nicely,  leaving  out  the  ugly  red  spots  liberally,  and  adding 
the  utmost  oil  as  a  lubricant,  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  persuade  the 
mess  to  shut  their  eyes  and  bolt  it,  like  Mrs.  Squeers'  molasses  and  brim- 
stone at  Dotheboys'  Hall.  Two  absolutely  refuse  to  taste  it.  I  tell  them  of 
the  Silesians  using  its  leaves  as  a  spinach,  of  the  whalers  in  the  South  Seas 
getting  drunk  on  the  molasses  which  had  preserved  the  large  potatoes  of 
the  Azores, — I  point  to  this  gum,  so  fungoid  and  angry  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, and  so  flat  and  amiable  to-day, — all  by  a  potato  poultice :  my  elo- 
quence is  wasted  :  they  persevered  in  rejecting  the  admirable  compound. 

Sleep,  exercise,  amusement,  and  work  at  will,  carry  on  the  day  till  our 
six  o'clock  supper,  a  meal  something  like  breakfast,  and  something  like 
dinner,  only  a  little  more  scant,  and  the  officers  come  in  with  the  reports 
of  the  day.  Doctor  Hayes  shows  me  the  log,  I  sign  it;  Sontag  the  weather, 
I  sign  the  weather  ;  Mr.  Bonsall  the  tides  and  thermometers.  Thereupon 
comes  in  mine  ancient,  Brooks  ;  and  I  enter  in  his  journal  No.  3  all  the 
work  done  under  his  charge,  and  discuss  his  labors  for  the  morrow. 

McGary  comes  next,  with  the  cleaning-up  arrangements,  inside,  out 
side,  and  on  decks  ;  and  Mr.  Wilson  follows  with  ice  measurements.  And 
last  of  all  comes  my  own  record  of  the  day  gone  by ;  every  line,  as  I  look 
back  upon  its  pages,  giving  evidence  of  a  weakened  body  and  harassed 
mind.  We  have  cards  sometimes,  and  chess  sometimes, — and  a  few  maga- 
sines,  Mr.  Littell's  thoughtful  present,  to  cheer  away  the  evening. 


C54 


THE  CHANGELING. 


THE  CHANGELING. 


JOHN   G.    WHITTIER. 


I^OR  the  fairest  maid  in  Hampton 
They  needed  not  to  search, 
Who  saw  young  Anna  Favor 
Come  walking  into  church, — 

Or  bringing  from  the  meadows. 
At  set  of  harvest-day, 

The  frolic  of  the  blackbirds, 
The  sweetness  of  the  hay. 


She'll  come  when  she  hears  it  crying, 
In  the  shape  of  an  owl  or  bat. 

And  she'll  bring  us  our  darling  Anna 
In  place  of  her  screeching  brat." 

Then  the  goodman,  Ezra  Dalton, 
Laid  his  hand  upon  her  head : 

"  Thy  sorrow  is  great,  O  woman  ! 
I  sorrow. with  thee,"  he  said. 


Now  the  weariest  of  all  mothers, 
The  saddest  two-years  bride, 

She  scowls  in  the  face  of  her  husband. 
And  spurns  her  child  aside. 

"  Rake  out  the  red  coals,  goodman. 
For  there  the  child  shall  lie, 

Till  the  black  witch  comes  to  fetch  her. 
And  both  up  chimney  fly. 

"  It's  never  my  own  little  daughter. 
It's  never  my  own,"  she  said  ; 

"  The  witches  have  stolen  ray  Anna, 
And  left  me  an  imp  instead. 

"  0,  fair  and  sweet  was  my  baby, 
Blue  cye.s,  and  ringlets  of  gold  ; 

But  this  is  ugly  and  wrinkled, 
Cross,  and  cunning,  and  old. 

"  I  Iiatf!  the  touch  of  hor  fingers, 

I  hate  tlio  f<;(.'l  of  lior  skin  ; 
It's  not  the  milk  from  my  bosom. 

But  my  blood,  that  »ho  suiks  in. 

"  My  face  grown  sharp  with  the  torment : 
Look  !  my  arms  are  skin  and  bono! — 

liako  o[>r-n  the  red  loals,  goodman, 
Aiwl  tl...  witch  shall  have  her  own. 


"  The  patli.s  to  trouble  are  many, 

And  never  but  one  sure  way 
Leads  out  to  the  light  beyond  it : 

My  poor  wife,  let  us  pray." 
Then  he  said  to  the  great  All-Father, 

"  Thy  daughter  is  weak  and  blind  ; 
Let  her  sight  come  back,  and  clothe  her 

Once  more  in  her  right  mind. 
"  Lead  her  out  of  this  evil  shadow, 

Out  of  these  fancies  wild  ; 
Let  the  holy  love  of  the  mother. 

Turn  again  to  het  child. 
"  Make  her  lips  like  the  lips  of  Mar}  , 

Kissing  her  blessed  Son  ; 
Lot  her  hands,  like  the  hands  of  Jesus, 

Rest  on  her  little  one. 
"Comfort  the  soul  of  thy  liamlmaid. 

Open  her  prison  door, 
And  thine  shall  bo  all  the  glory 

And  praiso  forevormorc." 
Then  into  the  face  of  its  mother, 

The  baby  looked  up  and  smiled  ; 
And  tlio  cloud  of  her  soul  was  lifted, 

And  she  km'W  Iht  little  chill. 
A  beam  of  slant  west  sunshine 

Madi!  the  wan  face  almost  fair, 


WHY? 


656 


Lit  the  blue  eyes'  patient  wonder 
And  the  rings  of  pale  gold  hair. 

She  kissed  it  on  lip  and  forehead, 
She  kissed  it  on  cheek  and  chin  ; 

And  she  bared  her  snow-white  bosom 
To  the  lips  so  pale  and  thin. 

0,  fair  on  her  bridal  morning 

Was  the  maid  who  blushed  and  smiled. 
But  fairer  to  Ezra  Dalton 

Looked  the  mother  of  his  child. 

With  more  than  a  lover's  fondness 
He  stooped  to  her  worn  young  face 

And  the  nursing  child  and  the  mother 
He  folded  in  one  embrace. 

"  Now  mount  and  ride,  my  goodman 

As  lovest  thine  own  soul ! 
Woe's  me  if  my  wicked  fancies 

Be  the  death  of  Goody  Cole !" 

His  horse  he  saddled  and  bridled. 
And  into  the  night  rode  he, — 

Now  through  the  great  black  woodland  ; 
Now  by  the  white-beached  sea. 

He  rode  through  the  silent  clearings. 

He  came  to  the  ferry  wide, 
And  thrice  he  called  to  the  boatman 

Asleep  on  the  other  side. 


He  set  his  horse  to  the  river, 
He  swam  to  Newburg  town, 


And  he  called  up  Justice  Sewall 
In  his  nightcap  and  his  gown. 

And  the  grave  and  worshipful  justice, 
Upon  whose  soul  be  peace ! 

Set  his  name  to  the  jailer's  warrant 
For  Goody  Cole's  release. 

Then  through  the  night  the  hoof-beata 
Went  sounding  like  a  flail : 

And  Goody  Cole  at  cock  crow 
Came  forth  from  Ipswich  jail. 


WEY? 


ETHEL    LYNN. 


^^K|OW  kind  Reuben  Esmond  is  growing 

IPII  of  late, 

'f f^^     How  he  stops  every  day  as  he  goes 

^'>»  by  the  gate, 

4  Asking  after  my  health.  'T  is  a  good- 

¥  hearted  lad, 

j      To  think  of  the  soldier,  so  lonely  and 

sad- 
The  school-children  hail  me  as  "  Grandfather 

Brown," 
Because  I'm  the  oldest  man  left  in  the  town  ; 


But  when  the  slant  sunbeams  come  hither  to 

lie, 
Reuben  Esmond  comes  too — I  cannot  tell 

why. 

For  I  am  a  tedious  and  stupid  old  man, 

Quite  willing  to  do  all  the  good  that  I  can ; 

But  a  crutch  and  a  pension  will  tell  you  tht 
tale 

Of  the  warm  work  I  had  in  the  Beech-For- 
est Vale. 


656 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 


I've  told  it  to  Reuben — well,  ten  times  or 

more — 
I,  sitting  just  here,  little  Jo  in  the  door, 
(Jo  is  poor  Mary's  child,  she  that  came  home 

to  die, 
God  knew  it  was  be?t,  I  couldn't  see  why.) 

And  Reuben  and  Josie,  they  sit  very  still, 

When  I  tell  how  I  fought  over  Hazelton  Hill ; 

But  the  child  turns  away  if  I  chance  to  look 
round, 

And  stares  at  the  apple-blooms  strewn  on 
the  ground. 

Then  she  says  I  must  move  when  the  sun- 
light is  gone, 

She  isn't  afraid  to  be  left  there  alone  ; 

And  Reuben  springs  up  so  cheerful  and  spry, 

To  help  me  in-doors — I  do  wonder  why. 

He  don't  go  away — he  isn't  afraid 

Of  the  dew  on  the  grass  or  the  deep-falling 

shade. 
It  must  be  very  tedious  for  Josie  to  stay, 
But  she  says  she  don't  mind  't  is  the  girl's 

pleasant  way. 
She  knows  I  like  Reuben ;  and  so  every  night 
She  pins  up  her  hair  with  a  posy  so  bright. 
'T  is  strange — in  the  morning  the  red  roses 

lie 
All  crushed  on  the  step — I  do  wonder  why. 

There's  neighbor  Grey's  son,  lie   acts  very 

queer, 
He  used  to  be  always  so  neighborly  here  ; 
When  I  call  to  him  now  he  grows  white  and 

red, 


Never  asks  me  if  Josie  is  living  or  dead. 
He  don't  seem  to  like  her,  I  thought  he  did 

once, 
But  perhaps  the  old  soldier  is  only  a  dunce. 
He  won't  speak  to  Reuben  when  passing  him 

by. 
Nor  stop  at  his  call — I  do  wonder  why. 

Here's  Reuben  to-day.     He  looks  round  my 

chair 
In  the  doorway  for  Jo.   The  child  isn't  there, 
And   the  lad   looks   abashed.     "  I  called — 

Captain  Brown," 
And  here  he  stops  short,  looking  awkwardly 

down, 
"  To  ask  you  for  Josie."    The  lad  lifts  his  head, 
While  his  cheek,  like  a  girl's,  flushed  all  over 

red. 
"  I  will  love  her  and  guard  her  until  I  shall 

die, 
And  she  loves  me,  she  says,  I  cannot  tell  why." 

I  have  surely  forgotten  how  Time  never 
stays, 

How  the  wave  of  the  year  gulfs  the  drops  of 
the  days. 

Little  Jo  seventeen  !     Ah,  yes,  I  remember. 

Just  seventeen  years  the  eighteenth  of  No- 
vember. 

Little  Josie  a  bride.  "  Take  her,  Reuben, 
and  be 

Very  tender  and  patient."  More  clearly  I 
see 

Why  Reuben  should  call  every  day  going  by, 

To  ask  for  my  welfare.  Grandfather  knows 
why. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 


H.    W.    LONf,  FELLOW. 


|ETWEEN  the  rbrk  and  llie  daylight, 
^^^     When  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
i'v^  Comes  a  pauHC  in  the  (Iuv'h  fXTupalions, 
^ ''(i      Tliat  iH  known  a.t  tlic  cliildren'H  hour. 

I  hf-ar  in  the  chamber  above  me 
The  patter  of  little  feet, 


The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 
And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  ntudy  I  sen  in  IIk^  liiniplightj 
DeH(:onding  llu'  I)rnad  hall  stair. 

Grave  Alice  and  hiu^^Iiing  Allegra, 
And  Ivlith  with  golden  hair. 


GRANDPA   AND    HIS   TETS- 


FRANKLIN'S  ARRIVAL  IN  PHILADELPHIA, 


657 


A  whisper  and  then  a  silence ; 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 

Tu  take  nie  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall, 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded, 
They  enter  my  castle  wall. 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret. 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair : 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me : 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  intwine, 


Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  Ills  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine. 

Do  you  think,  0  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 
And  will  not  let  you  depart. 

But  put  j'ou  into  the  dungeon 
In  the  round-tower  of  rny  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever. 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day. 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin 

And  moulder  in  dust  away. 


FRANKLIN'S  ARRIVAL  IN  PHILADELPHIA. 


^ 


^I^N  my  arrival  at  Philadelphia,  I  was  in  my  working  dress,  my  best 
clothes  being  to  come  by  sea.  I  was  covered  with  dirt;  my 
pockets  were  filled  with  shirts  and  stockings  ;  I  was  unacquainted 
with  a  single  soul  in  the  place,  and  knew  not  where  to  seek  a 
lodging. 

Fatigued  with  walking,  rowing,  and  having  passed  the  night 
witliout  sleep,  I  was  extremely  hungry,  and  all  my  money  consisted  of  a 
Dutch  dollar,  and  about  a  shilling's  worth  of  coppers,  which  I  gave  to  the 
boatmen  for  my  passage.  As  I  had  assisted  them  in  rowing,  they  refused 
it  at  first ;  but  I  insisted  on  their  taking  it.  A  man  is  sometimes  more 
generous  when  he  has  little  than  when  he  has  much  money ;  probably 
because,  in  the  first  case,  he  is  desirous  of  concealing  his  poverty. 

I  w^alked  towards  the  top  of  the  street,  looking  eagerly  on  both  sides, 
till  I  came  to  Market  Street,  where  I  met  with  a  child  wath  a  loaf  of 
bread.  Often  had  I  made  my  dinner  on  dry  bread.  I  inquired  where  he 
had  Dought  it,  and  went  straight  to  the  baker's  shop  which  he  pointed  out 
to  me. 

I  asked  for  some  biscuits,  expecting  to  find  such  as  we  had  at  Boston ; 
but  they  made,  it  seems,  none  of  that  sort  at  Philadelphia.  I  then  asked 
for  a  three-penny  loaf  They  made  no  loaves  of  that  price.  Finding 
myself  ignorant  of  the  prices,  as  well  as  of  the  difierent  kinds  of  bread,  J 


658 


THROUGH  TRIALS. 


desired  him  to  let  me  have  threepenny-worth  of  bread  of  some  kind  or 
other.  He  gave  me  three  large  rolls.  I  was  surprised  at  receiving  so 
much  :  I  took  them,  however,  and,  having  no  room  in  my  pockets,  I  walked 
on  with  a  roll  under  each  arm,  eating  a  third.  In  this  manner  I  went 
through  Market  Street  to  Fourth  Street,  and  passed  the  house  of  Mr.  Read^ 
the  father  of  my  future  wife.  She  was  standing  at  the  door,  observed  me,  and 
thought,  with  reason,  that  I  made  a  very  singular  and  grotesque  appearance. 
I  then  turned  the  corner,  and  went  through  Chestnut  Street,  eating  my 
roll  all  the  way ;  and,  having  made  this  round,  I  found  myself  again  on 
Market  Street  wharf,  near  the  boat  in  which  I  arrived.  I  stepped  into  it  to 
take  a  draught  of  the  river  water ;  and,  finding  myself  satisfied  with  my 
first  roll,  I  gave  the  other  two  to  a  woman  and  her  child,  who  had  come 
down  with  us  in  the  boat,  and  was  waiting  to  continue  her  journey.  Thus 
refreshed,  I  regained  the  street,  which  w^as  now  full  of  well-dressed  people, 
a!l  going  the  same  way.  I  joined  them,  and  was  thus  led  to  a  large 
Quakers'  meeting-house  near  the  market-place.  I  sat  down  with  the  rest, 
and,  after  looking  round  me  for  some  time,  hearing  nothing  said,  and  being 
drowsy  from  my  last  night's  labor  and  want  of  rest,  I  fell  into  a  sound 
sleep.  In  this  state  I  continued  till  the  assembly  dispersed,  when  one  of 
the  congregation  had  the  goodness  to  wake  me.  This  was  consequently  the 
first  house  I  entered,  or  in  which  T  slept,  at  Philadelphia. 


THROUGH  TRIALS, 


ROSENGARTEN. 


JIIROUGH  night  to  light.  And  though 
to  mortal  eyes 
Creation's  face  a  pall  of  horror  wear, 
Good  cheer,  good  cheer  !     The  gloom 
of  midnight  flies, 
•'■     Then  shall  a  sunrise  follow,  mild  and  fair. 

Through  storm  to  calm.     And    though    his 
thunder  car 
The  rumbling  tempest  drive  through  earth 
and  sky, 
Good  cheer,  good  cheer !     The  elemental  war 
Tells  that  a  Messed  healing  hour  is  nigh. 

Through  frost  to  spring.     And   though   the 
biting  bla«t 
Of  Eurus  stiffen  nature's  juicy  veinn. 


Good  cheer,  good  cheer !  When  winter's  wratb 
is  past, 
Soft  murmuring   spring   brealhen   sweetly 
o'er  thi'  ])lains. 

Through  strife  to  peace.     And  tli<iugh  with 

bristling  front, 

A  thousand  frightful  deaths  encompass  thee, 

Good  cheer,  good   cheer !     Brave  thou  ths 

battle's  brunt, 

For  the  peace  mardi  and  song  of  victory. 

llirongh  cross  to  crown.     And   tlmmgli  thy 
spirit's  life 
Trials  untold  iussail  with  giant  strength. 
Good  cheer,  gooil  cheer  I   Soon  ends  the  bittei 
strife, 


VISION  OF  THE  MONK  GABRIEL. 


659 


And  Lhou  shalt  reign  in  peace  with  Chri.st 
at  length. 

Through  death  to   life.     And   through   this 
vale  of  tears, 


And  through  this  thistle-field  of  life,  as 

cend 
To  the  great  supper  in    that   world,  whose 

years 
Of  bliss  unfading,  cloudless,  know  no  end. 


VISION  OF  THE  MONK  GABRIEL. 


ELEANOR   C.    DONNELLY. 


the    soft    twilight.      Round    the 

shining  fender, — 
Two  at  my  feet  and  one  upon  my 
knee, — 
Dreamy-eyed  Elsie,  bright-lipped  Isa- 
bel, 
And  thou,  my  golden-headed  Raphael, 
My  fairy,  small  and  slender. 
Listen  to  what  befell 
Monk  Gabriel, 
In  the  old  ages  ripe  with  mystery  : 
Listen,  my  darlings,  to  the  legend  tender. 

An  aged  man  with  grave,  but  gentle  look — 
His  silence  sweet  with  sounds 
With    which    the    simple-hearted    spring 

abounds ; 
Lowing  of  cattle  from  the  abbey  grounds. 
Chirping  of  insect,  and  the  building  rock 
Mingled  like  murmurs  of  a  dreaming  shell ; 
Quaint  tracery  of  bird,  and  branch,  and  brook, 
Flitting  across  the  pages  of  his  book. 
Until  the  very  words  a  freshness  took — 
Deep  in  his  cell 
Sat  the  monk  Gabriel. 

In  his  book  he  read 
The  words  the  Master  to  His  dear  ones  said  : 

"  A  little  while  and  ye 
Shall  see. 

Shall  gaze  on  Me  ; 

A  little  while  again. 

Ye  shall  not  see  Me  then." 
A  little  while ! 
The  monk  looked  up — a  smile 
Making  his  visage  brilliant,  liquid-eyed  : 
'  Thou  who  gracious  art 


Unto  the  poor  of  heart, 
0  blessed  Christ!"  he  cried, 

"  Great  is  the  misery 

Of  mine  iniquity ; 
But  would  /now  might  see, 
Might  feast  on  Thee  !" 
— The  blood  with  sudden  start. 
Nigh  rent  his  veins  apart — 
(Oh  condescension  of  the  Crucified  :) 

In  all  the  brilliancy 

Of  His  Humanity — 
The  Christ  stood  by  his  side  ! 

Pure  as  the  early  lily  was  His  skin. 
His  cheek  out-blu.shed  the  rose. 

His  lips,  the  glows 
Of  autumn  sunset  on  eternal  snows ; 

And  His  deep  eyes  within. 
Such   nameless  beauties,   wondrous    glories 

dwelt 
The  monk  in  speechless  adoration  knelt. 
In  each  fair  hand,  in  each  fair  foot  there  shona 
The  peerless  stars  He  took  from  Calvary ; 
Around  His  brows  in  tenderest  lucency 
The  thorn-marks  lingered,  like  the  flash  of 

dawn  ; 
And  from  the  opening  in  His  side  there  rilled 
A  light,  so  dazzling,  that  all  the  room  wa« 

filled 
With  heaven  ;  and  transfigured  in  his  place 

His  very  breathing  stilled. 
The  friar  held  his  robe  before  his  face, 

And  heard  the  angels  singing ! 

'Twas   but  a  moment — then,  upon   th» 
spell 
Of  this  sweet  presence,  lo  !  a  something  broke- 


660 


BOOK-BUYERS. 


A  something  trembling,  in  the  belfry  woke, 
A  shower  of  metal  music  flinging 

O'er  wold  and  moat,  o'er  jiark  and  lake  and 
fell, 

And  through  the  open  windows  of  the  cell 
In  silver  chimes  came  ringing. 

It  was  the  bell 

Calling  monk  Gabriel, 

Unto  his  dail)'  task, 
To  feed  the  paupers  at  the  abbey  gate  ; 

No  respite  did  he  ask. 
Nor  for  a  second  summons  idly  wait ; 
But  rose  up,  saying  in  his  humble  way  ; 

"  Fain  would  I  stay, 

0  Lord  !  and  feast  ahvay 
Upon  the  honeyed  sweetness  of  Thy  beauty ; 
But  'tis  Tliy  will,  not  mine.     I  must  obey. 

Help  me  to  do  my  duty  !'' 

Td:;  f'.-hile  the  Vision  smiled, 
The  monk  weu    ^orth,  light-hearted  as  a 
child 


An  hour  hence,  his  duty  nobly  done 

Back  to  his  cell  he  came  ; 
Unasked,  unsought,  lo  !  his  reward  was  won  ! 
— Rafters   and   walls  and   floor  were  yet 

aflame 
With  all  the  matchless  glory  of  that  sun, 
And  in  the  centre  stood  the  Blessed  One 

(Praise  be  His  llol)'  Name  !) 
Who  for  oursakes  our  crosses  made  His  own, 
And  bore  our  weight  of  shame. 

Down  on  the  threshold  fell 
Monk  Gabriel, 
His  forehead  pressed  upon  the  floor  of  clay, 
And  while  in  deep  humility  he  lay, 
(Tears  raining  from  his  happy  eyes  away) 
"  Whence  is  this  favor.  Lord  ?"  he  strove  to 
say. 

The  Vision  only  said, 
Lifting  its  shining  head ; 
"If  thoxi.  hadst  staid,  0  son,  /must  have  fled." 


BOOK-BUYERS. 


JOHN  RUSKIN. 


gig  SAY  WO  have  despised  literature ;  what  do  we,  as  a  nation,  care 
^'^  about  books?  How  much  do  you  think  we  spend  altogether  on  our 
libraries,  public  or  private,  as  compared  with  what  we  spend  on  our 
horses?  If  a  man  spends  lavishly  on  his  library,  you  call  him  mad — a 
bibliomaniac.  But  you  never  call  one  a  horse-maniac,  though  men  ruin 
themselves  every  day  by  their  horses,  and  you  do  not  hear  of  people 
ruining  themselves  by  their  books.  Or,  to  go  lower  still,  how  much  do 
you  think  the  contents  of  the  book-shelves  of  the  United  Kingdom,  public 
and  private,  would  fetch,  as  compared  with  the  contents  of  its  wine  cellars? 
What  position  would  its  expenditure  on  literature  take  as  compared  with 
its  expenditure  on  luxurious  eating  ?  We  talk  of  food  for  the  mind,  as  of 
food  for  th.!  body  :  now,  a  good  book  contains  such  food  incxhaustilily  :  it 
is  provision  for  life,  an<l  for  the  best  part  of  us  ;  yet,  how  long  most  people 
vvf.uld  look  at  the  best  book  before  they  would  give  the  price  of  a  large 
turbot  for  it!  Though  there  have  been  men  who  have  pinched  their 
stomachs  and  bared  their  backs  to  buy  a  book,  whose  libraries  were  cheaper 


VOLTAIRE  AND  WILBERFORCE. 


661 


to  them,  I  think,  in  the' end,  tlian  most  men's  dinners  are.  We  are  few  of 
us  put  to  such  a  trial,  and  more  the  pity ;  for,  indeed,  a  precious  thing  is 
all  the  more  precious  to  us  if  it  has  been  won  by  work  or  economy  ;  and  if 
public  libraries  were  half  as  costly  as  public  dinners,  or  books  cost  the 
tenth  part  of  what  bracelets  do,  even  foolish  men  and  women  might  some- 
times suspect  there  was  good  in  reading  as  well  as  in  munchingiand  spark- 
ling; whereas  the  very  cheapness  of  literature  is  making  even  wiser  people 
forget  that  if  a  book  is  worth  reading  it  is  worth  buying. 


DAY  DAWN. 


H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


WIND  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 
g^^j^     And  said,  "  0,  mists,  make  room  for 
me." 


It  hailoil  the  ships,  and  cried,  "Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone." 


And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying  "  Awake!  it  is  the  d?y." 

It  said  unto  tlie  forest,  "  Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out !" 

It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  win^ 
And  said  "  0  bird,  awake  and  sing." 

And  o'er  tlie  farms,  '•  0  chanticleer. 
Your  clarion  blow,  the  day  is  near." 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 
"Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn.' 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry  tower, 
"  Awake ;  O  bell !  proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said.     "  Not  yet !  in  quiet  lie." 


VOLTAIRE  AND   WILBERFORCE. 


WILLIAM    B,  SPRAGUE. 


^ET  me  now,  for  a  moment,  .show  you  what  the  two  systems — Atheism 
i     and  Christianity — can  do,  have  done,  for  individual  character;  and 
I  can  think  of  no  two  names  to  which  I  may  refer  with  more  con- 
fidence, in  the  way  of  illustration,  than  Voltaire  and  AVilberforcc  ; 
both  of  them  names  which  stand   out  with  prominence. 


^2 


VOLTAIRE  AND  WILBERFORCE. 


Voltaire  was  perhaps  the  master-spirit  in  the  school  of  French  Atheism ; 
and  though  he  was  not  alive  to  participate  in  the  horrors  of  the  revolntion, 
probably  he  did  more  by  his  writings  to  combine  the  elements  for  that 
tremendous  tempest  than  any  other  man.  And  now  I  undertake  to  say 
that  you  may  draw  a  character  in  which  there  shall  be  as  much  of  the 
blackness  of  moral  turpitude  as  your  imagination  can  supply,  and  yet 
you  shall  not  have  exceeded  the  reality  as  it  was  found  in  the  character  of 
this  apostle  of  ditheism.  You  may  throw  into  it  the  darkest  shades  of 
selfishness,  making  the  man  a  perfect  idolater  of  himself;  you  may  paint 
the  serpent  in  his  most  wily  form  to  represent  deceit  and  cunning;  3'ou 
may  let  sensuality  stand  forth  in  all  the  loathsomeness  of  a  beast  in  the 
mire;  you  may  bring  out  envy,  and  malice,  and  all  tlie  baser  and  all  the 
darker  passions,  drawing  nutriment  from  the  pit;  and  when  you  have  done 
this,  you  may  contemplate  the  character  of  Voltaire,  and  exclaim,  "Here 
is  the  monstrous  original!"  The  fires  of  his  genius  kindled  only  to  wither 
and  consume;  he  stood,  for  almost  a  century,  a  great  tree  of  poison,  not 
only  cumbering  the  ground,  but  infusing  death  into  the  atmosphere;  and 
thouo-h  its  foliage  has  long  since  dropped  off,  and  its  branches  have  with- 
ered, and  its  trunk  fallen,  under  the  hand  of  time,  its  deadly  root  still 
remains;  and  the  very  earth  that  nourishes  it  is  cursed  for  its  sake. 

And  now  I  will  speak  of  Wilberforce ;  and  I  do  it  with  gratitude  and 
triumph, — gratitude  to  the  God  who  made  him  what  he  was;  triumph  that 
there  is  that  in  his  very  name  which  ought  to  make  Atheism  turn  pale. 
Wilberforce  was  the  friend  of  man.  Wilberforce  was  the  friend  of  enslaved 
and  wretched  man.  Wilberforce  (for  I  love  to  repeat  his  name)  consecrated 
the  energies  of  his  whole  life  to  one  of  the  noblest  objects  of  benevolence ; 
it  was  in  the  cause  of  injured  Africa  that  he  often  passed  the  night  in 
intense  and  wakeful  thought;  that  he  counseled  with  the  wise,  and 
reasoned  with  the  unbelieving,  and  expostulated  with  the  unmercilul;  that 
his  heart  burst  forih  with  all  its  melting  tenderness,  and  his  genius  with 
all  its  electric  fire;  that  he  turned  the  most  accidental  meeting  into  a  con- 
ference for  the  relief  of  human  woe,  and  converted  even  the  Senate-House 
into  a  theatre  of  benevolent  action.  Though  his  zeal  had  at  one  time 
almost  eaten  him  up,  and  the  vigor  of  his  frame  was  so  far  gone  that  he 
stooped  over  and  looked  into  liis  own  grave,  yet  his  faith  laile<l  not;  and, 
})lessed  be  God,  the  vital  .spark  was  kinill'il  u|»  anew,  and  he  kej)i  on  labor- 
ing through  a  long  succession  of  years;  and  at  longth,  just  as  his  friends 
wore  gathering  around  him  to  receive  his  last  whisper,  and  the  angels  were 
gathering  around  to  recoivo  his  departing  spirit,  the  n(nvs,  worthy  to  be 
borne  Vjy  angels,  w;is  V>rought   to  him,  that  the  great  object  to  which  his 


SUNRISE  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CHAMOUXIX. 


G63 


life  had  been  given  was  gained;  and  then,  Simeon-like,  he  clasped  his 
hands  to  die,  and  went  off  to  heaven  with  the  sound  of  deliverance  to  the 
captive  vibrating  sweetly  upon  his  ear. 

Both  Voltaire  and  Wilbcrforce  arc  dead;  but  each  of  them  lives  in 
the  character  he  has  left  behind  him.  And  now  who  does  not  delight  to 
honor  the  character  of  the  one?  who  does  not  shudder  to  contemplate  the 
character  of  the  other  ? 


SUNBISE  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CHAMOUNIX, 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


J^H^^WAKE,  my  soul  !    not   only  passive 

pjl^^^  praise 

^%^'^     Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swell- 

i^^  ing  tears, 

4  Mute    thanks    and    secret    ecstacy ! 

+  Awake, 

J      Voice  of  sweet  song !     Awake,  my  heart, 

awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the 

vale  ! 
0,  struggling  with -the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they 

sink, — 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn, 
Co-herald, — wake,  0,  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter 

death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 
Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever  ? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life. 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and 

your  joy. 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came). 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 


Ye  ice-falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's 

brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain, — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And   stopped   at   once   amid   their   maddest 

plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 

Who   made    you   glorious   as   the   gates    of 

Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?   Who  bade  the 

sun 
Clothe    you    with     rainbows?     Who,    with 

living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? 

God! — let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of 
nations. 

Answer  !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 

God  !  sing,  ye  meadow-streams,  with  glad- 
some voice  ! 

Te  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like 
sounds ! 

And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 

And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  I 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost ! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise ! 

Thou,  too,  boar   Mount !    with   thy  sky- 
pointing  peaks, 


564 


SUNRISE  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CHAMOUNIX. 


Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche  unheard,  Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud. 

Shoots   downward,    glittering    through    the  i  To  rise  before  me, — Rise,  0,  ever  rise  ! 

pure  serene,  i  Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  tne  ii.artb' 

Cnto  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast,-  I  Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hiiia 


Then  too  again,  slupendouH  Muiintaiii  !  thou 
Thut  aa  I  rai.se  my  hoad,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  ba«e 
Slow  traveling  with  dim  '»vch  Buffused  with 
tears, 


I  Thou    dread     amliasRa<lor    from    Earth    tt 
I  Heaven, 

Great  Hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
1  And  tell  the  stars  and  tell  yon  rising  sun 
1  Earth,  with  her  thousand  vr''?eB.  praises  Uov 


THE  POWER  OF  WORDS.  0G5 


THE  POWER  OF  WORDS. 


EDWIN   P.   WHIPPLE. 


^)RDS  are  most  effective  when  arranged  in  that  order  which  is 

called  style.     The  great  secret  of  a  good  style,  we  are  told,  is  to 

have  proper  words  in  proper  places.     To  marshal  one's  verbal 

battalions  in  such  order  that  they  may  bear  at  once  upon  all 

1         quarters  of  a  subject,  is  certainly  a  great  art.     This  is  done  in 

J  different  ways.    Sv;ift,  Temple,  Addison,  Hume,  Gibbon,  Johnson, 

Burke,  are  all  great  generals  in  the  discipline  of  their  verbal  armies  and 

the  conduct  of  their  paper  wars.     Each  has  a  system  of  tactics  of  his  own, 

and  excels  in  the  use  of  some  particular  weapon. 

The  tread  of  Johnson's  style  is  heavy  and  sonorous,  resembling  that  of 
an  elephant  or  a  mail-clad  warrior.  He  is  fond  of  leveling  an  obstacle  by 
a  polysyllabic  battering-ram.  Burke's  words  are  continually  practicing 
the  broad-sword  exercise,  and  swooping  down  adversaries  with  every 
stroke.  Arbuthnot  "  plays  his  weapon  like  a  tongue  of  flame."  Addison 
draws  up  his  light  infantry  in  orderly  array,  and  marches  through  sentence 
after  sentence  without  having  his  ranks  disordered  or  his  line  broken. 
Luther  is  different.  His  words  are  "  half  battles  ;"  "  his  smiting  idiomatic 
phrases  seem  to  cleave  into  the  very  heart  of  the  matter."  Gibbon's 
legions  are  heavily  armed,  and  march  with  precision  and  dignity  to  the 
music  of  their  own  tramp.  They  are  splendidly  equipped,  but  a  nice  eye 
can  discern  a  little  rust  beneath  their  fine  apparel,  and  there  are  sutlers  in 
his  camp  who  lie,  cog,  and  talk  gross  obscenity.  Macaulay,  brisk,  lively, 
keen,  and  energetic,  runs  his  thought  rapidly  through  his  sentence,  and 
kicks  out  of  the  way  every  word  which  obstructs  his  passage.  He  reins 
in  his  steed  only  when  he  has  reached  his  goal,  and  then  does  it  with  such 
celerity  that  he  is  nearly  thrown  backwards  by  the  suddenness  of  his  stop- 
page. Gifford's  words  are  moss-troopers,  that  waylay  innocent  travelers 
and  murder  them  for  hire.  Jeffrey  is  a  fine  "  lance,"  with  a  sort  of  Arab 
swiftness  in  his  movement,  and  runs  an  iron-clad  horseman  through  the  eye 
before  he  has  had  time  to  close  his  helmet. 

John  Wilson's  camp  is  a  disorganized  mass,  who  might  do  effectual 
service  under  better  discipline,  but  who,  under  his  lead,  are  suffered  to 
carry  on  a  ramV)ling  and  predatory  warfare,  and  disgrace  their  general  by 
flagitious  excesses.  Sometimes  they  steal,  sometimes  swear,  sometimes 
rlrmk,  and  sometimes  pray.  Swift's  words  are  porcupine's  quills,  which  he 
ihrows  with  unerring  aim  at  whoever  approaches  his  lair.  All  of  Ebene- 
7.er  Elliot's  words  are  gifted  with  huge  fists,  to  pommel  and  bruise.  Chat- 
45 


666  DUST  ON  HER  BIBLE. 


ham  and  Mirabeau  throw  hot  shot  into  their  opponents'  magazines. 
Talfourd's  forces  are  orderly  and  disciplined,  and  march  to  the  music  of 
the  Dorian  flute;  those  of  Keats  keep  time  to  the  tones  of  the  pipe  of 
Phoebus ;  and  the  hard,  harsh-featured  battalions  of  Maginn  are  always 
preceded  by  a  brass  band.  Hallam's  word  infantry  can  do  much  execution 
when  they  are  not  in  each  other's  way.  Pope's  phrases  are  either  daggers 
or  rapiers.  Willis's  words  are  often  tipsy  with  the  champagne  of  the 
fancy,  but  even  when  they  reel  and  stagger  they  keep  the  line  of  grace 
and  beauty,  and,  though  scattered  at  first  by  a  fierce  onset  from  graver 
cohorts,  soon  reunite  without  wound  or  loss. 

John  Neal's  forces  are  multitudinous,  and  fire  briskly  at  every  thmg. 
They  occupy  all  the  provinces  of  letters,  and  are  nearly  useless  from  being 
spread  over  too  much  ground.  Everett's  weapons  are  ever  kept  in  good 
order,  and  shine  well  in  the  sun  ;  but  they  are  little  calculated  for  warfare, 
and  rarely  kill  when  they  strike.  Webster's  words  are  thunderbolts, 
which  sometimes  miss  the  Titans  at  whom  they  are  hurled,  but  always 
leave  enduring  marks  when  they  strike.  Hazlitt's  verbal  army  is  some- 
times drunk  and  surly,  sometimes  foaming  w'ith  passion,  sometimes  cool 
and  malignant,  but,  drunk  or  sober,  are  ever  dangerous  to  cope  with. 
Some  of  Tom  Moore's  words  are  shining  dirt,  which  he  flings  with 
excellent  aim.  This  list  might  be  indefinitely  extended,  and  arranged  with 
more  regard  to  merit  and  chronology.  My  own  words,  in  this  connection, 
mio-ht  be  compared  to  ragged,  undisciplined  militia,  which  could  be  easily 
routed  bv  a  charge  of  horse,  and  which  are  apt  to  fire  into  each  others* 
faces. 


DUST  ON  HER  BIBLE. 


ROBERT   LOWRY. 


MET  her  whore  Folly  w:ib  quf^en  of  the  I  But  the  words  of  the  scoffer  that  dropped  by 
throng,  I  tlie  way 

Betokened  how  sadly  hor  luart  was  astray — 
There  was  dust  on  her  Bible  at  homo. 


And  Mirth  bade  the  giddy  ones  come, 
And  she,  'mid   the  wildest,   in   dance 

and  in  song, 
Swept  on   with  the  current,  so   turgid 
and  strong — 
Tliore  was  dust  on  her  Bible  at  home. 


I  met  her  once  more,  but  her  brow  had  no  care, 

Her  soul  was  Immanuel's  throne; 
And  I  know  by  the  artless  and  tear-moistened 
prayer, 
1  met  her  again  whfn   away  from  the  gay,       |  That  rose  from  the  spirit  in  supj)liance  there. 


In  the  stillness  of  thought  she  would  roam,  Tlmt  tbf  dust  on  her  Bible  was  gono 


WINTER  SPORTS. 


G6: 


WINTER  SPORTS. 


[||(3  some,  the  winter  is  a  season  to  be  dreaded.     In  their  poverty  they 

,  are  exposed  to  the  cutting  blasts,  the  snow,  the  ice,  the  long  dark 

&      nights,  the  lack  of  many  sources  of  employment.     To  others,  win- 

j        ter  brings  exhilaration  and  enjoyment  of  the  keenest  sort. '  The 

•I        eyes  need  not  close  upon  the  more  sombre  views  of  this  rigorous 

season,  nor  need  the  heart  refuse  the  appeals  of  the  suffering,  if  for  a  time 

the  more  cheery  side  be  viewed  and  winter  sports  be  contemplated. 

Despite  the  chilling  blasts  the  people  generally  are  ready  to  spring  to 
their  cutters  and  sleighs  of  more  pretentious  size  whenever  snow  falls  and 

opportunity  offers.  The  merry  laugh, 
the  joyful  shout,  the  cheery  song  minc/le 
vvith  the  jingling  sJeigh-bells  on  city 
streets  and  country  roads,  and  for  the 
time  a  carnival  of  joy  prevails.  The 
heavy  sledges  of  traffic  gather  up  liv- 
ing loads,  the  business  wagon  affixed 
to  runners  becomes  a  pleasure  vehicle  for  a  happy  family,  while  the  smah 
boy  with  hand-sled,  home-made  and  rough  or  factory-made  and  costly 
plies  his  vocation  catching  a  ride  from  the  passing  team,  or  coasting  upon 
some  convenient  hill.  All  these  pursuits  are  followed  with  a  rehsh  seldom 
felt  in  summer  pastimes.  Away  from  the  city's  busy  sleighing  scene 
winter  sports  multiply  and  intensify.     Whittier  tells  of— 

The  moonlit  skater's  keen  delight, 
The  sleigh-drive  through  the  frosty  night 
The  rustic  party,  with  its  rough 
Accompaniment  of  blind  man's  buff." 


668 


WINTER  SPORTS. 


Something  of  these  scenes  is  familiar  to  every  one.  To  see  them  is 
an  inspiration ;  to  take  part  in  them  renews  the  youth  of  the  aged,  and 
reinvio-orates  the  young ;  to  remember  them  is  like  "  the  sound  of  distant 
music,  sweet,  though  mournful  to  the  soul." 

Few  sports  seem  rougher  than  the  tumble  in  the  snow  or  the  well- 
contested  battle  with  snow-balls.  But  who  refuses  to  take  a  hand  in  such 
a  contest  ?  Even  the  staid  and  dignified  men  and  matrons  arc  led  easily 
into  indulgences  at  this  point.  Considerations  of  health,  or  of  garments 
come  before  these  prudent  seniors,  but  down  they  go,  regarded  but  for  a 
moment,  when  challenged  to  sport  like  this.  The  Quaker  Poet  himself 
knew  how  this  matter  stood,  for  he  declares  in  "Snow  Bound,"  that 

'■  the  watchful  young  men  saw 

Sweet  doorway  pictures  of  the  curls, 
And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls, 
Lifting  their  hands  in  rnock  defence 
Against  the  snow-ball's  compliments." 


True,  here  the  poet  speaks  of  young  pooi)lc  and  tlunr  enjoymont,  hut 
the  evident  relish  he  has  for  the  whole  matter  shows  that  he  himself 
knew  just  how  the  matter  stood.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  he  could 
long  resist  an  appeal  to  toss  these  tender  "  missives  "  through  some  open 
doorway,  did  curly  heads  and  bright  eyes  l)ut  present  themselves  there. 

To  enter  with  zest  and  yet  with  care  into  the  real  cnjoyniont  of  out- 
dfx>r  sports — and  ospeciallv  in  the  bracing  winter  montlis — is  the  part  of 
wisdom.  Exhilaration,  sueli  as  can  be  gainecl  in  nf)  otlior  way,  is  thus  se- 
cured. True  lionlth  and  vigor  must  exist'  brfore  ;i  iicarty  participation 
can  bo  liad  in  such  sports.  But  a  helpful  jiarlicipation  can  be  had  on  a 
Hmall  physical  capital.  That  effeminacy  wliic.h  dreads  the  bracing,  highly 
oxygenized  atmosphere  of  midwinter  is  not  conducive  to  manly  strength. 
On  the  otlic-  hand,  there   is  a  i-i-ckK^ssncss  of  exposure  which  is  misiaken 


THE  ROSE. 


669 


for  manliness.  This  is  equally  undesirable.  It  will  break  one's  constitu- 
tion, and  between  a  good  constitution  broken  and  one  never  strong  there 
is  but  little  choice.  Wise  care  blended  with  hearty  earnestness  should 
rule  our  winter  enjoyments.  And  a  kindly  consideration  for  less  favorc(J 
onet-  should  never  be  neglected.  Many  need  our  help,  and  should  have  it 
freely  while  we  ourselves  rejoice. 


THE  ROSE. 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 


But 


5N  bis  tower  sat  the  poet 

5         Gazing  on  the  roaring  sea, 

f  "Take   this   rose,"    he   sighed,    "and 

I  throw  it 

Where    there's   none    that    loveth 
me. 
On  the  rock  the  billow  bursteth, 
And  sinks  back  into  the  seas, 
in  vain  my  spirit  thirsteth 
So  to  burst  and  be  at  ease. 


'  Take,  0  sea !  the  tender  blossom 

That  hath  lain  against  my  breast  ; 

On  thy  black  and  angry  bosom 
It  will  find  a  surer  rest, 

Life  is  vain,  and  love  is  hollow. 

Ugly  death  stands  there  behind, 


Hate,  and  scorn,  and  hunger  follow 
Him  that  toileth  for  his  kind." 

Forth  into  the  night  he  hurled  it, 

And  with  bitter  smile  did  mark 
How  the  surly  tempest  whirled  it 

Swift  into  the  hungry  dark. 
Foam  and  spray' drive  back  to  leewa.'d. 

And  the  gale,  with  dreary  moan. 
Drifts  the  helpless  blcf.som  seaward, 

Through  the  breaking,  all  alone. 

ir. 

Stands  a  maiden,  on  the  morrow. 

Musing  by  the  wave-beat  strand, 
Half  in  hope,  and  half  in  sorrow 

Tracing  words  upon  the  sand : 
"  Shall  I  ever  then  behold  him 

Who  hath  been  my  life  so  long, — 
Ever  to  this  sick  heart  fold  him, — 

Be  the  spirit  of  his  song? 


"  Touch  not,  sea,  the  blessed  letters 
I  have  traced  upon  thy  shore, 

Spare  his  name  who.se  spirit  fetters 
Mine  with  love  forever  more  !  " 

Swells  the  tide  and  overflows  it. 
But  with  omen  jiure  and  meet 


670 


THE  LOST  LOVE. 


Brings  a  little  rose,  and  throws  it 

Humbly  at  the  maiden's  feet. 

Full  of  bliss  she  takes  the  token, 

And,  upon  her  snowy  breast, 
Boothes  the  ruffled  petals  broken 

With  tl^e  ocean's  fierce  unrest. 
"  Love  is  thine,  0  heart !  and  surely 

Peace  shall  also  be  thine  own, 
For  the  heart  that  trusteth  purely 

Never  long  can  pine  alone." 

in. 

In  his  tower  sits  the  poet, 

Blisse.s  new,  and  strange  to  him 
Fill  his  heart  and  overflow  it 

With  a  wonder  sweet  and  dim. 


Up  the  beach  the  ocean  slideth 
With  a  whisper  of  delight, 

And  the  moon  in  silence  glideth. 

Through  the  peaceful  blue  of  night. 

Rippling  o'er  the  poet's  shoulder 

Flows  a  maiden's  golden  hair, 
Maiden  lips,  with  love  grown  bolder. 

Kiss  his  moonlit  forehead  bare. 
*'  Life  is  joy,  and  love  is  power, 

Death  all  fetters  doth  unbind, 
Strength  and  wisdom  only  flower 

When  we  toil  for  all  our  kind. 

Hope  is  truth,  the  future  giveth 

More  than  present  takes  away, 
And  the  soul  forever  liveth 

Nearer  God  from  day  to  day." 
Not  a  word  the  maiden  muttered. 

Fullest  hearts  are  slow  to  speak, 
But  a  withered  rose-leaf  fluttered 

Down  upon  the  poet's  cheek. 


THE  LOST  LOVE. 


^OT"!! K  dwelt  among  thn  untrodden  ways 
Heside  the  npringB  of  Dove  j 
maid  whom  tliore  wore  none  to  praise 
And  very  few  to  love. 


\Vn.M.\M    WORDSWORTH. 


She  iiv(.'d  unknown,  and  few  couM  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  0 

The  differcnre  to  me  I 


BUCK  FANSHAW'S  FUNERAL.  Q^i 


BUCK  FANSHAW'S  FUNERAL. 


S.  T..  CLEMENS. 


iHEEE  was  a  grand  time  over  Buck  Fanshaw  when  he  died.  He 
was  a  representative  citizen.  On  the  inquest  it  was  shown  that, 
in  the  delirium  of  a  wasting  typhoid  fever  he  had  taken  arsenic, 
shot  himself  through  the  body,  cut  his  throat,  and  jumped  out  of  a 
four-story  window  and  broken  his  neck,  and,  after  due  deliberation, 
the  jury,  sad  and  tearful,  but  with  intelligence  unblinded  by  its  sor- 
row, brought  in  a  verdict  of  "  death  by  the  visitation  of  Providence." 
What  could  the  world  do  without  juries  ! 

Prodigious  preparations  were  made  for  the  funeral.  All  the  vehicles 
in  town  were  hired,  all  the  saloons  wore  put  in  mourning,  all  the  muni- 
cipal and  fire-company  flags  were  hung  at  half-mast  and  all  the  firemen 
ordered  to  muster  in  uniform,  and  bring  their  machines  duly  draped  in 
black. 

Regretful  resolutions  were  passed  and  various  committees  appointed ; 
among  others,  a  committee  of  one  was  deputed  to  call  on  the  minister — a 
fragile,  gentle,  spiritual  new  fledgling  from  an  eastern  theological  semi- 
nary, and  as  yet  unacquainted  with  the  ways  of  the  mines.  The  commit- 
tee-man, "  Scotty  "  Briggs,  made  his  visit. 

Being  admitted  to  his  presence,  he  sat  down  before  the  clergyman, 
placed  his  fire-hat  on  an  unfinished  manuscript  sermon  under  the  minister's 
nose,  took  from  it  a  red  silk  handkerchief,  wiped  his  brow,  and  heaved  a 
sigh  of  dismal  impressiveness,  explanatory  of  his  business.  He  choked  and 
even  shed  tears,  but  with  an  effort  he  mastered  his  voice,  and  said,  in  lugu- 
brious tones  : 

"  Are  you  the  duck  that  runs  the  gospel-mill  next  door  ?  " 

"Am  I  the  — pardon  me,  I  believe  I  do  not  understand." 

With  another  sigh  and  a  half  sob,  Scotty  rejoined : 

"  Why  you  see  we  are  in  a  bit  of  trouble,  and  the  boys  thought  maybe 
you'd  giye  us  a  lift,  if  we'd  tackle  you,  that  is,  if  I've  got  the  rights  of  it, 
and  you're  the  head  clerk  of  the  doxology  works  next  door." 

"I  am  the  shepherd  in  charge  of  the  flock  whose  fold  is  next 
door." 

"The  which?" 

"  The  spiritual  adviser  of  the  little  company  of  believers  whose  sanc- 
tuary adjoins  these  premises." 

Scotty  scratched  his  head,  reflected  a  moment,  and  then  said : 


Q^2  BUCK  FANSHAWS  FUNERAL. 


"  You  ruther  hold  over  me,  pard.  I  reckon  I  can't  call  that  card. 
Ante  and  pass  the  buck." 

"  How  ?     I  beg  your  pardon.     What  did  I  understand  you  to  say  ?  " 

"  Well,  you've  ruther  got  the  bulge  on  me.  Or  maybe  we've  both  got 
the  bulge,  somehow.  You  don't  smoke  me  and  I  don't  smoke  you.  You 
see  one  of  the  boys  has  passed  in  his  checks,  and  we  want  to  give  him  a 
good  send  off,  and  so  the  thing  I'm  on  now^  is  to  roust  out  somebody  to 
jerk  a  httle  chin-music  for  us,  and  waltz  him  through  handsome," 

"  My  friend,  I  seem  to  grow  more  and  more  bewildered.  Your  obser- 
vations are  wholly  incomprehensible  to  me.  Can  you  not  simplify  them 
some  way  ?  At  first  I  thought  perhaps  I  understood  you,  but  I  grope 
now.  Would  it  not  expedite  matters  if  you  restricted  yourself  to  the  cate- 
gorical statements  of  fact  unincumbered  with  obstructing  accumulations  of 
metaphor  and  allegory  ?  " 

Another  pause  and  more  reflection.  Then  Scotty  said  :  "  I'll  have  to 
pass,  I  judge." 

"How?" 

"  You've  raised  me  out,  pard." 

"  I  still  fail  to  catch  your  meaning." 

"  Why,  that  last  lead  of  your'n  is  too  many  for  me — that's  the  idea. 
T  can't  neither  trump  nor  follow  suit." 

The  clergyman  sank  back  in  his  chair  perplexed.  Scotty  leaned  his 
head  on  his  hand,  and  gave  himself  up  to  reflection.  Presently  his  face 
came  up,  sorrowful,  but  confident. 

"  I've  got  it  now,  so's  you  can  savvy,"  said  he.  "  What  we  Avant  is  a 
gospel-sharp.     See?" 

"  A  what  ?  " 

"  Gospol-.sharp.     Parson." 

"Oh!     Why  did   you  not    say  so  before?     I  am  a  clergyman — a 

parson." 

"  Now  you  talk  !     You  see  my  blind,  and  straddle  it  like  a  man.    Put 

it  there  !" — extending  a  brawny  |)aw,  which  closed  over  the  minister's  small 
hand  and  gave  it  a  shake  indicative  of  fraternal  sympathy  and  forvcni 
gratification. 

"  Take  him  all  round,  pard,  there  never  w.'us  abullicr  man  in  the  mines. 
No  man  ever  know'd  Buck  Fan.shaw  to  go  back  on  a  friend.  But  it's  all 
up,  you   know  ;  it's  all  u]).     It  ain't  no  uso.     They've  scooped  liim  !  " 

"  Scooped  him  ?  " 

"  Yes — doatli  has.  Wfl!,  w«-ll,  well,  we've  got  to  give  him  up.  Yes, 
indeed.     It's  a  kind  of  a,  liard  world  after  all,  ain't  it?     But,  jiard,  he  w.'us 


BUCK  FANSHAW'S  FUNERAL.  673 


a  rustler.  You  ought  to  seen  him  get  started  once.  He  was  a  bully  bov 
with  a  glass  eye !  Just  spit  in  his  face,  and  give  him  room  according  to 
his  strength,  and  it  was  just  beautiful  to  see  him  peel  and  go  in.  He  was 
the  worst  son  of  a  thief  that  ever  draw'd  breath.  Pard,  he  was  on  it.  Ho 
was  on  it  bigger  than  an  injun  !  " 

"On  it?     On  what?" 

"  On  the  shoot.  On  the  shoulder.  On  the  fight.  Understand  ?  He 
didn't  give  a  contiiiental — for  a?i?/body.  Beg  your  pardon,  friend,  f(jr 
coming  so  near  saying  a  cuss  word — but  you  see  I'm  on  an  awful  strain  in 
this  palaver,  on  account  of  having  to  cramp  down  and  draw  everything  so 
mild.  But  we've  got  to  give  him  up.  There  ain'f  any  getting  around 
that,  I  don't  reckon.     Now  if  we  can  get  you  to  help  plant  him — " 

"  Preach  the  funeral  discourse  ?     Assist  at  the  obsequies?  " 

"  Obs'quies  is  good.  Yes.  That's  it ;  that's  our  little  game.  We  are 
going  to  get  up  the  thing  regardless,  you  know.  He  was  always  nifty 
himself,  and  so  you  bet  you  his  funeral  ain't  going  to  be  no  slouch ;  solid 
silver  door-plate  on  his  coffin,  six  plumes  on  the  hearse,  and  a  nigger  on 
the  box,  with  a  biled  shirt  and  a  plug  hat  on — how's  that  for  high  ?  And 
we'll  take  care  of  you,  pard.  We'll  fix  you  all  right.  There  will  be  a 
kerridge  for  you ;  and  whatever  you  want  you  just  'scape  out,  and  we'll 
tend  to  it.  We've  got  a  shebang  fixed  up  for  you  to  stand  behind  in  No. 
I's  house,  and  don't  you  be  afraid.  Just  go  in  and  toot  your  horn,  if  you 
don't  sell  a  clam.  Put  Buck  through  as  bully  as  you  can,  pard,  for  any- 
body that  know'd  him  will  tell  you  that  he  was  one  of  the  whitest  men 
that  was  ever  in  the  mines.  You  can't  draw  it  too  strong  to  do  him  jus- 
tice. Here  once  when  the  Micks  got  to  throwing  stones  through  the 
Methodist  Sunday-school  windows,  Buck  Fanshaw,  all  of  his  own  notion, 
shut  up  his  saloon,  and  took  a  couple  of  six-shooters  and  mounted  gtiard 
over  the  Sunday-school.  Says  he,  '  No  Irish  need  apply.'  And  they 
didn't.  He  was  the  bulliest  man  in  the  mountains,  pard ;  he  could  run 
faster,  jump  higher,  hit  harder,  and  hold  more  tangle-foot  whiskey  without 
spilling  it  than  any  man  in  seventeen  counties.  Put  that  in,  pard  ;  it'll 
please  the  boys  more  than  anything  you  could  say.  x\nd  you  can  say, 
pard,  that  he  never  shook  his  mother." 

"  Never  shook  his  mother?  " 

"That's  it — any  of  the  boys  will  tell  you  so." 

"  Well,  but  why  should  he  shake  her  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  say — but  some  people  does." 

"  Not  people  of  any  repute  ?  " 

"  Well,  some  that  averages  pretty  so-so." 


674 


THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH. 


"  In  my  opinion  a  man  that  would  offer  personal  violence  to  his 
mother,  ought  to — " 

"Cheese  it,  pard;  you've  banked  your  ball  clean  outside  the  string. 
What  I  was  a-drivin'  at  was  that  he  never  throwed  off  on  his  mother — 
don't  you  see  ?  No  indeedy  !  He  give  her  a  house  to  live  in,  and  town 
lots,  and  plenty  of  money ;  and  he  looked  after  her  and  took  care  of  her  all 
the  time  ;  and  when  she  was  down  with  the  small-pox,  I'm  cuss'd  if  he 
didn't  set  up  nights  and  nuss  her  himself!  Beg  your  pardon  for  saying  it, 
but  it  hopped  out  too  quick  for  yours  truly.  You've  treated  me  like  a 
gentleman,  and  I  ain't  the  man  to  hurt  your  feelings  intentional.  I  think 
you're  white.  I  think  you're  a  square  man,  pard.  I  like  vou,  and  I'll 
lick  any  man  that  don't.  I'll  lick  him  till  he  can't  tell  himself  from  a  last 
year's  corpse.     Put  it  there  !  " 

[Another  fraternal  handshake — and  exit.] 


THJ::  HOUR  OF  DEATH. 


MRS.  F.  HEMANS. 


WES  have  their  time  to  fall,              i  Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 

^'.Aii'i    flowers  to   wither  at   the   north  '  And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's 

wind's  breath,  breath. 

And  stars  to  set — but  all,                     j  And  stars  to  set — but  all, 

Tliou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  I  Thouhast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oli  Death! 
oh  Deatli! 

We  know  wlu-n  moons  shall  wane, 

Day  is  for  mortal  care  When  surumer-binls  from  far  sliall  cross  the 

Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth,  |  ^^^< 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  !  When  autumn's  Inu)  shall  tinge  the  golden 
prayer—                                             '  ^rain- 
But  all  for  Th<-o,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth.  I^»^  who  shall  tea<h  us  when   to  look    for 

thee? 
The  banijuct  hath  its  hour. 

Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  Hong,  and  wine;  Is  it  whon  Sjtring's  first  gale 

There  comes  a  day  for  griffs  oVrwliflming  Tomes    forth   to   whispor    where    the   violets 

I'ower,  li(.  "> 

A  time  fur  softer  tears — but  all  are  thine.  In  it  when  roses  in  our  jiatlis  grow  jiale?— 

They  liave  <mr  season — all  are  ours  to  die ! 
Youtli  and  tlie  opening  rose 

May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay,  TIjuh  art  where  billows  foam, 

And  smile  at  thee — but   thf»u   art    rot  of  Tliou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air ; 

'I'O'"'  Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home, 

Tbat  wail  the  ri(>ened  bloom   t<.   seize  their  And  (lie  world  calls  us  forth  -and  tlmu  art 

prey.  there. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  SPECTACLES. 


675 


Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest — 

And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north  wind's 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets 

breath, 

rend 

And  stars  to  set- -but  all, 

The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely 

Thou   hast    all   seasons  for  thine   own,  oh 

crest. 

Death ! 

AmWUB  "  TO  THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH." 


MRS.    CORNWALL    BARON    WILSON, 


PJ'E,  all  we  know  must  die, 

111  ugh  none  can  tell  the  exact  ap- 
pointed hour ; 

Nor  should  it  cost  the  virtuous  heart 
a  sigh, 

Whether  death  doth  crush  the  oak,  or 
nip  the  opening  flower. 


The  Christian  is  prepared. 
Though  others  tremble  at  the  hour  of  gloom  ! 

His  soul  is  always  ready  on  his  guard  ; 
His  lamps  are  lighted  'gainst  the  bridegroom 
come. 

It  matters  not  the  time 
When  w^e  shall  end  our  pilgrimage  below  ; 
'Whether  in  youth's  bright  morn,  or  man- 
hood's prime. 
Or  when  the  frost  of  age  has  whitened  o'er 
our  brow. 

The  child  has  blossomed  fair. 
And  looked  so  lovely  on  its  mother's  breast, 


The  source  of  many  a  hope  and  many  a 
prayer. 
Why  murmur  that  it  sleeps  when  all  at  last 
may  rest  ? 

Snatched  from  a  world  of  woe. 
Where  they  must  sufier  most  who  longest 
dwell, 
It  vanished  like  a  flake  of  early  snow, 
That  melts  into  the  sea,  pure  as  from  heaven 
it  fell. 

The  youth  whose  pulse  beats  high, 
Eager  through  glory's  brilliant  course  to  run, 
Why  should  we  shed  a  tear  or  breathe  a 
sigh. 
That  the  bright  goal  is  gained — the  prize  thus 
early  won  ! 

Yes !  all  we  know  must  die. 
Since  none  can  tell  the  exact  appointed  hour 
Why  need  it  cost  the  virtuous  heart  a  sigh 
Whether  death  doth  crush  the  oak,  or  nip  the 
opening  flower  ? 


GRANDMOTHEES  SPECTACLES. 


T.    DE    WITT   TALMAGE. 


l^^UT  sometimes  these  optical  instruments  get  old  and  dim.     Grand- 
^^^     mother's  pair  had  done  good  work  in  their  day.     They  were  large 


'^^^'      and  round,  so  that  when  .she  saw  a  thing  she  saw  it.     There  was 

J        a  crack  across  the  upper  part  of  the  glass,  for  many  a  baby  had 
made  them  a  plaything,  and  all  the  grandchildren  had  at  some 
time  tried  them  on.     They  had  sometimes  been  so  dimmed  with  tears  that 


676 


GRANDMOTHER'S  SPECTACLES. 


she  had  to  take  them  off  and  wipe  them  on  her  apron  before  she  could  see 
through  them  at  all.  Her  "second-sight"  had  now  come,  and  she  would 
often  let  her  glasses  slip  down,  and  then  look  over  the  top  of  them  while 
the  read.     Grandmother  was  pleased  at  this  return  of  her  vision.    Getting 


along  so  well  without  them,  sht;  often  lost  her  spectacles.  Sometimes  they 
would  lie  for  weeks  untouched  on  the  shelf  in  the  red  morocco  case,  the 
flaji  unlifted.  She  could  now  look  off  u))on  the  hills,  which  for  thirty  years 
h]v  had  not  been  abhi  to  sfo  from  the  piazza.  Those  worc^  mistak(Mi  who 
thought  she  had  no  poetry  in  her  soul.     You  could  see  it  in  the  way  she 


TIIK  Uhl)  VILLA* iK  CHOIR. 


677 


put  her  hand  under  the  chin  of  a  primrose,  or  cultured  the  geranium. 
Sitting  on  the  piazza  one  evening,  in  her  rocking-chair,  she  saw  a  ladder 
of  cloud  set  up  against  the  sky,  and  thought  how  easy  it  would  be  for  a 
spirit  to  climb  it.  She  saw  in  the  deep  glow  of  the  sunset  a  chariot  of 
fire,  drawn  by  horses  of  fire,  and  wondered  who  rode  in  it.  She  saw  a 
vapor  floating  thinly  away,  as  though  it  were  a  wing  ascending,  and  grand- 
mother muttered  in  a  low  tone:  ''A  vapor  that  appeareth  for  a  little  sea- 
son, and  then  vanisheth  away."  She  saw  a  hill  higher  than  any  she  had 
ever  seen  before  on  the  horizon,  and  on  the  top  of  it  a  king's  castle.  The 
motion  of  the  rocking-chair  became  slighter  and  slighter,  until  it  stopped. 
The  spectacles  fell  out  of  her  lap.  A  child,  hearing  it,  ran  to  pick  them 
up,  and  cried  :  "Grandmother,  what  is  the  matter?"  She  answered  not. 
She  never  spake  again.  Second-sight  had  come !  Her  vision  had  grown 
better  and  better.  What  she  could  not  see  now  was  not  worth  seeing. 
Not  now  throicgh  a  glass  darkly/  Grandmother  had  no  more  need  of 
spectacles ! 


THE  OLD  VILLAGE  CHOIR. 

BENJAMIN    F.  TAYLOR 


HAVE  fancied  sometimes  the  Bethel- 
bent  beam 
That  trembled  to   earth  in   the  patri- 
arch's dream, 


"  Let  us  sing  to  God's  praise!"  the  minister 

said : 
All  the  psalm  books  at  once  fluttered  open  at 

"York." 


T       Was  a  ladder  of  song  in  that  wilder-  Sunned  their  long-dotted  wings  in  the  words 

\  ness  rest,  that  he  read, 

J        From  the  pillow  of  stone  to  the  blue  ,  While  the  leader  leaped  into  the  tune  just 

of  the  Blest,  ahead. 

And  the  angels  descending  to  dwell  with  us  And  politely  picked  up  the  key-note  with  a 

here,  fork, 

"Old  Hundred"  and  'Corinth,"  and  "China"  i  And  the  vicious  old  viol  wentgrowling  along 

and  "  Mear,"  !  At  the  heels  of  the  girls  in  the  rear  of  th» 

song. 
A"   the  hearts  are  not  dead   nor  under  the  I 

sod,  ' 

That  these  breaths  can  blow  open  to  heaven  j  Oh,  I  need  not  a  wing; — bid  no  genii  come 

and  God.  |  With  a  wonderful  web  from  Arabian  loom, 

Ah,  "Silver  Street"  flows  by  a  bright  shining  To  bear  me  again  up  the  river  of  Time, 

road —  When  the  world  was  in  rhythm  and  life  was 

Oh,  not. to  the  hymns  that  in  harmony  flowed,  ;  its  rhyme, 

But   the   sweet   human   psalms  of    the  old-  |  And  the  stream  of  the  years  flowed  so  noise- 
fashioned  choir,  les.s  and  narrow 

To  the  girl  that  sang  alto,  the  girl  that  .-^ang  ,  That   across   it  there    floated  the   song  of  a 
air.                                                              I  sparrow ; 


THE  (X)KAL  QROV  .y. 


For   a   sprig  of  green   caraway  carries   me 

there, 
To  the  old  village  church  and  the  old  village 

choir, 
Where    clear    of  the  floor   my  feet    slowly 

swung 
And  timed  the  sweet  pulse  of  the  praise  that 

they  sung, 
Till  the  glory  aslant  from  tlie  afternoon  sun 
Seemed  the  rafters  of  gold  in  God  s  temple 

begun ! 

You  may  smile  at  the   nasals  of  old  Deacon 

Brown, 
Who  followed  by  scent  till  he  ran  the  tune 

down, 


And  dear  sister  Green,  with   more  goodness 

than  grace. 
Rose  and  fell  on  the  tunes  as  she  stood  in  her 

place, 
And  where  "  Coronation  "  exultantly  flows 
Tried  to  reach  the  high  notes  on  the  tips  of 

her  toes ! 
To  the  land  of  the  leal  they  have  gone  with 

their  song. 
Where  the  choir  and  the  chorus  together  be- 
long. 
Oh  !  be  lifted,  ye  gates  1     Let  u:*  hear  them 

again. 
Blessed   song!      Blessed    singers!      forever, 

Amen ! 


THE  CORAL  dllOVK. 


JAMKS    G.    PERCIVAL. 


iEP  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 
Where  tJie  j)urplo  mullet,  and  gold 

fish  rove ; 
Where    the    sea  flower    Hprcads    its 

leaves  of  blue 
Tliat  iieviT  are  wet  witli  falling  diw, 
Mut  id  liriglit  and   changeful   beauty 
Hbino 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  gbiSHy  brino. 
Tbe  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 
And  the  pearl  shells  sfiangle  tbe  llinty  snijw  ; 


From  coral  rocks  the  sea  i)lantH  lift 

Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows 

(low  ; 
Thf:  water  is  calm  and  still  bi'low, 
For  the  wind  and  waves  arc  absisnt  (liere, 
And  thi'  sands   are  bright,  as  tho  stars  that 

gb.w 
In  the  inotiouloss  Oelds  of  upper  air. 
There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  grei-n, 
Tho  sea  flag  streams  through  tbesilont  water, 
And  the  crimson  leaf  <jf  the  dulse  is  scinn 


OViiJK  THE  HILL  TO  THE  POOR-HOUSE. 


679 


To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter. 
There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion,       [sea ; 
The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear  deep 
And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 
Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 
Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 
And   is   safe   when   the   wrathful   spirit    of 

storms 
Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his  own. 


And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 
Where  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar. 
When  the   wind-god  frowns  in   the  murkj 

skies,  [shore, 

And    demons    are   waiting    the   wreck    on 
Then,  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea, 
The  purple  mullet  and  gold  fish  rove. 
Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly. 
Through   the   bending   twigs   of    the    coral 

grove. 


LAW. 


JAMES    BEATTIE. 


VWS,  as  we  read  in  ancient  sages. 
Have  been  like  cobwebs  in  all  ages. 
Cobwebs  for  little  flies  are  spread, 
And  laws  for  little  folks  are  made ; 


But  if  an  insect  of  renown, 
Hornet  or  beetle,  wasp  or  drone, 
Be  caught  in  quest  of  .sport  or  plunder, 
The  flimsy  fetter  flies  in  sunder. 


OVEB   THE  RILL  TO   TEE  POOR-HOUSE. 


AVILL.  M.  CARLETON. 


■  \'ER  the  hill  to  the  poor-house  I'm 
;  trudgin'  my  weary  way — 

I,  a  woman  of  seventy,  and  only  a 

trifle  gray — 
I,  who  am  smart  an'  chipper,  for  all 

the  years  I've  told, 
As  many  another  woman,  that's  only 
half  as  old. 

Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house — I  can't  make 

it  quite  clear  ! 
Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house — it  seems  so 

horrid  queer  ! 
Many  a  step  I've  taken  a-toilin'  to  and  fro, 
But  this  is  a  sort  of  journey  I  never  thought 

to  go. 

What  is  the  use  of  heapin'  on  mo  a  pauper's 

shame  ? 
Am  I  lazy  or  crazy?  am  I  blind  or  lame  ? 
True,   I  am  not  so  supple,  nor  yet  so  awful 

stout, 
46 


\  But  charity  ain't  no  favor,  if  one  can  live 
j  without. 

I  I  am  willin'  and  anxious  an'  ready  any  day, 
j  To  work  for  a  decent  livin',  an'  pay  my 
I  honest  way  ; 

I  For  I  can  earn  my  victuals,  an'  more  too,  I'll 

be  bound, 
I  If  any  body  only  is  willin'  to  have  me  round. 

Once   I    was    young    and  han'some — I    was 

upon  my  soul — 
Once  my  cheeks  was  roses,  my  eyes  as  black 

as  coal ; 
And   I   can't  remember,  in   them   days,   of 

hearin'  people  saj', 
For  any  kind  of  reason,  that  I  was  in  their 

way. 

'Taint  no  use   of  boastin',   or   talkin'   over 

free, 
But  many  a  hoiLse  an'  home  was  open  then  to 
I  me ; 


680 


OVER  THE  HILL  TO  THE  P00R-H0Uc5E. 


Many   a   han'some  offer  I    bad  from  likely 

men. 
And  nobody  ever  binted  tbat  I  was  a  burden 

tben. 

And  when  to  John  I  was  married,  sure  be 

was  good  and  smart, 
B'lt  be  and  all  the  neighbors  would  own  I 

done  my  part : 
i^ov  I'fe  was  all  before  me,  an'  I  was  young 

an  strong. 
And  I  worked  the  best  tbat  I  could  in  tryin' 

Ui  03Z  along. 


And  when,  exceptin'  Charley,  they'd  left  ui 

there  alone , 
When  John  he  nearer  au'  nearer  come,  an' 

dearer  seemed  to  be, 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  he  come  one  daj-  an'  took 

him  away  from  me. 

Still  I  was  bound  to  struggle,  an'   never  to 

cringe  or  fall — • 
Still  I  worked  for  Charlie,  for  Charlie  vas 

now  my  all ; 
And   Charlie  was   pretty  good  to  me,   with 

scarce  a  word  or  frown. 


'^v*"-'  '^.'■>5'-E 


And  so  we   worked  together :    and  life  was 

hard  but  gay. 
With  now  and  tben  a  baby,  for  to  cheer  us 

on  our  way ; 
Till   we  had    half  a  dozen,    an'  all  growed 

clean  an'  neat, 
An   went  to   school    like   others,    an'    had 

enough  to  eat. 

So   we  worked  for  the  childr'n,   and  raised 

'em  every  one ; 
Worked  for  'em  summer  and  winter,  just  as 

we  ouglit  t )  've  done ; 
Only  perhaps  wc  humored  'cm,  which  some 

good  folks  condrmn, 
Uut  every  coujde'.s  child'rn's  a  heap  the  best 

to  tnem. 

Strange  how  riiU'li  we  think  of  our  blc.^sfd 

littlo  ones? — 
I'd  have   died  for   my   daughters,  I'd  have 

'iif'd  for  my  aohb  ; 
And    C.o'l  he  ma<^le  that    rule  of  love  ;    hut 

wl«'n  we're  old  and  gray, 
I've  notiri'd  it  Hometimes  somehow   fails   (<> 

work  th"  other  way. 

t'tranue.  an  ,lli'r  thing:  when   our  hoys  an' 
girls  wa'  grown, 


Till  at  last  he  went  a  oourtin',  and  brought 
a  wife  from  town. 

She  was  somewhat  dressy,  an'  hadn't  a  pleas- 
ant smile — 

She  was  quite  conceity,  and  carried  a  heap 
o'  style ; 

But  if  ever  I  tried  to  be  friends,  I  did  with 
her,  I  know ; 

But  she  was  hard  and  proud,  an'  I  couldn't 
make  it  go. 

Slie  bad  an  edication,  an'  that  was  good  for 
her ; 

But  when  she  twitted  luc  on  mine  'twas  car- 
lyin'  things  too  fur  ; 

An'  I  told  her  once  'fore  company  (an  it  al- 
most made  her  sick). 

That  r  never  swallowed  a  grammar,  or  'et  a 
'ritlmiati''. 

So  'twas  only  a    few  days   before  the  tbirio 

was  done — 
They    \v:i»   a    family    of    themselves,  and    1 

another  one; 
.'\nd  a  very  liltle  eoltage  for  one  family  will 

do, 
I'm  T  bav<>  never  seen  .1  Ikmi-i'  !!iat  was  big 

'■n<iugh  for  lw<>. 


OVER  THE  HILLS  FROM  THE  POOR-HOUSE. 


681 


An'  I  never  could  speak  to  suit  lier,  never 

could  please  her  eye, 
An    it   made    me    independent,    an'    then    I 

didn't  try ; 
But  I  was  terribly  staggered,  an'  felt  it  like 

a  blow, 
When  Charlie  turned  ag'in  me,  an'  told  me  I 

could  go. 

\.  went  to  live  with  Susan,  but  Susan's  house 

was  small, 
And  she  was  always  a-hintin'  how  snug  it 

was  for  us  all ; 
And  what  with   her   husband's  sisters,  and 

what  with  her  childr'n  three, 
'Twas   easy   to   discover   that   there   wasn't 

room  for  me. 

An'  then  I  went  to  Thomas,  the  oldest  son 

I've  got, 
For  Thomas'  buildings'd  cover  the  half  of  an 

acre  lot ; 
But  all  the  childr'n  was  on  me — I  couldn't 

stand  their  sauce — 
And   Thomas   said   I   needn't   think  I  was 

comin'  there  to  boss. 


An'  then,  I  wrote  to  Rebecca, — my  girl  who 

lives  out  West, 
And  to  Isaac,  not  far  from  her — some  twenty 

miles  at  best ; 
An'  one  of  'em  said  'twas  too  warm  there, 

for  any  one  so  old, 
And  t'other  had  an  opinion  the  climate  was 

too  cold, 

So  they  have  shirked  and  slighted    me,  an' 

shifted  me  about — 
So  they  have  well  nigh  soured  me,  an'  worn 

my  old  heart  out ; 
But  still  I've  born  up  pretty  well,  an'  wasn't 

much  put  down, 
Till  Charlie  went  to  the  poor-master,  an'  put 

me  on  the  town. 

Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house — my  childr'n 

dear,  good-bye  ! 
Many  a  night  I've  watched  you  when  only 

God  was  nigh  ; 
And   God'll  judge   between  us;    but   I  will 

al'ays  pray 
That   you  shall   never  suffer  tte  half  I  do 

to-day. 


OVEB  THE  HILLS  FROM  THE  POOR-HOUSE. 


MAY    MIGNONETTE. 


^^kVER  the  hills  to  the  poor-house  sad 
jSHjR  paths  have  been  made  to-day, 

For  sorrow  is  near,  such  as  maketh 
the  heads  of  the  young  turn 
gray. 

f         Causing  the  heart  of  the  careless  to 
I  throb  with  a  fevered  breath — 

The  sorrow  that  leads  to  the  chamber  whose 
light  has  gone  out  in  death. 

To  Susan,  Rebecca  and  Isaac,  to  Thomas  and 

Charley,  word  sped 
That  mother  was  ill  and  fast  failing,  perhaps 

when  they  heard  might  be  dead  ; 
But  e'en  while  they  wrote  she  was  praying 

that  some  of  her  children  might  come. 


To  hear  from  her  lips  their  last  blessing  befora 
she  should  start  for  her  home 

To  Susan,  poor  Susan  !  how  bitter  the  agony 
I  brought  by  the  call, 

I  For  deep  in  her  heart  for  her  mother  wida 
1  rooms  had  been  left  after  all ; 

I  And  now,  that  she  thought,  by  her  fireside 

one  place  had  been  vacant  for  years, — 
I  And  while  "  o'er  the  hills"  she  was  speeding 
I  her  path  might  be  traced  by  her  tears. 

I 

'  Rebecca !  she  heard  not  the  tidings,  but  thos* 
'  who  bent  over  her  knew 

1  That  led  by  the  Angel  of  Death,   near  ths 
I  waves  of  the  river  she  drew; 


682 


A  PRAYER  FOR  MY  LITTLE  ONE. 


Delirious,  ever  she  told  them  her  mother  was 
cooling  her  head, 

WMle,  weeping,  they  thought  that  ere  morn- 
ing both  mother  and  child  might  be 
dead. 

And,  kneeling    beside  her,  stern  Isaac  was 

quiv'ring  in  aspen-like  grief. 
While  waves  of  sad  mem'ry  surged  o'er  him 

like  billows  of  wind  o'er  the  leaf; 
'  Too  late,"  were  the  words  that  had  humbled 

his  cold,  haughty  pride  to  the  dust, 
And    Peace,  with    her    olive-boughs    laden, 

crowned  loving  forgiveness  with  trust. 

Bowed    over    his    letters    and    papers,    sat 

Thomas,  his  brow  lined  by  thought. 
But  little  he  heeded  the  markets  or  news  of 

his  gains  that  they  brought ; 
His  lips  grew  as  pale  as  his  cheek,  but  new 

purpose  seemed  born  in  his  eye, 
And  Thomas  went  "  over  the  hills."  to  the 

mother  that  shortly  must  die. 

To  Charley,  her  youngest,  her  pride,  came  the 

mother's  message  that  morn. 
And  he  was  away  "o'er  the  hills"  ere  the 

sunlight  blushed  over  the  corn  ; 
And,  strangest  of  all,  by  his  side,  was  the 

wife  he  had  "  brought  from  the  town," 
And  silently  wept,  while  her   tears   strung 

with    diamonds     her     plain    mourning 

gown. 

For  each  had  been    thinking,  of  late,  how 

they    missed    the    old    mother's    sweet 

smile, 
And  wond'ring  how  they  could  have  been  so 

blind  and  unjust  all  that  while ; 
Th'-y  thought  of  tlieir   hansh,  cruel   words, 

and  longed  to  atone  for  the  j)a9t, 


When  swift  o'er  the  heart  of  vain  dreams 
swept  the  presence  of  death's  chilling 
blast. 

So  into  the  chamber  of  death,  one  by  one, 

these  sad  children  had  crept, 
As  they,  in  their  childhood,  had  done,  when 

mother  was  tired  and  slept, — 
And  peace,  rich   as  then,  came  to  each,  as 

they  drank  in  her  blessing,  so  deep, 
That,  breathing  into  her  life,  .«he  fell  back  in 

her  last  blessed  sleep. 

And  when    "  o'er  the  hills  from  the  poor 

house,''  that  mother  is  tenderly  borne, 
The  life  of  her  life,  her  loved  children,  treaa 

softly,  and  silently  mourn. 
For  theirs  is  no  rivulet    sorrow,  but  deep  as 

the  ocean  is  deep. 
And  into  our  lives,  with  sweet  healing,  the 

balm  of  their  bruising  may  creep= 

For  swift  come  the  flashings  of  temper,  and 

torrents  of  words  come  as  swift, 
Till  out  'mong  the  tide-waves  of  anger,  how 

often  we  thoughtlessly  drift ! 
And  heads  that  are  gray  with  life's  ashes. 

and   feet    that  walk    down    'mong  tlie 

dead, 
We  send  "  o'er  the  hills  to  the  poor-house  " 

for  love,   and,  it  may  be,  for  bread. 

Oh  !  when  shall  we  value  the  living  while 

yet  the  keen  sickle  is  stayed, 
Nor  slight  the  wild  flower  in  its  blooming, 

till  all  its  sweet  life  is  decayed? 
Yet  often    the    fragrance   is    richest,    when 

] toured  from  the  bruised  blossom's  soul, 
And  "over  the  hills  from  the  poor-li'use' 

the  rarest  of  melodies  roll. 


A  PEA  YER  FOR  MY  LITTLE  ONE. 


^rWP^  bless  my  little  one !  How  fair 


EDGAR   FAWCETT. 


TJif!    mfllow  lamp-light  gilds    his 
y^'  hair. 

^l|.h      Loose  on  the  cradle-pillow  there. 
<j>  God  bless  my  little  one  I 


God  guard  my  little  one !     To  mo 
Life,  widowed  of  his  life  would  be 
Ah  Koa-sandH  widowed  of  the  sea. 
God  guard  my  little  one  1 


LOSS  OF  THE  ARCTIC. 


683 


;  ro  I  love  my  little  one- !     As  clear 
Cool  sunihine  holds  the  first  green  s])ear 
On  April  meadows,  hold  him  dear. 
God  love  my  little  one ! 


When  these  fond  lips  are  mute,  and  when 
I  slumber,  not  to  wake  again, 
God  bless — God  guard — God  lov  him  then, 
My  little  one  !     Amen. 


LOSS  OF  THE  ARCTIC. 


HENRY    WARD    BEECHER. 


9T  was  autumn.     Hundreds  had  wended  their  way  from  pilgrimages ; 

\  from  Eomo  and  its  treasures  of  dead  art,  and  its  glory  of  living 
nature ;  from  the  sides  of  the  Switzer's  mountains,  and  from  the 
capitals  of  various  nations, — all  of  them  saying  m  their  hearts,  we 
will  wait  for  the  September  gales  to  have  done  with  their  equinoctial 
fury,  and  then  we  will  embark ;  we  will  slide  across  the  appeased 


684  LOSS  OF  THE  ARCTIC. 


ocean,  and  in  the  gorgeous  month  of  October  we  will  greet  our  longed-for 
native  land,  and  our  heart-loved  homes. 

And  so  the  throng  streamed  along  from  Berlin,  from  Paris,  from  the 
Orient,  converging  upon  London,  still  hastening  toward  the  welcome  ship, 
and  narrowing  every  day  the  circle  of  engagements  and  preparations. 
They  crowded  aboard.  Xever  had  the  Arctic  borne  such  a  host  of  pas- 
sengers, nor  passengers  so  nearly  related  to  so  many  of  us.  The  hour  was 
come.  The  signal-ball  fell  at  Greenwich.  It  was  noon  also  at  Liveri^ool. 
The  anchors  were  weighed;  the  great  hull  swayed  to  the  current;  the 
national  colors  streamed  abroad,  as  if  themselves  instinct  with  life  and 
national  sympathy.  The  bell  strikes ;  the  wheels  revolve ;  the  signal-gun 
beats  its  echoes  in  upon  every  structure  along  the  shore,  and  the  Arctic 
glides  joyfully  forth  from  the  Mersey,  and  turns  her  prow  to  the  winding 
channel,  and  begins  her  homeward  run.  The  pilot  stood  at  the  wheel, 
and  men  saw  him.  Death  sat  upon  the  prow,  and  no  eye  beheld  him. 
Whoever  stood  at  the  wheel  in  all  the  voyage.  Death  was  the  pilot  that 
steered  the  craft,  and  none  knew  it.  He  neither  revealed  his  presence  nor 
whispered  his  errand. 

And  so  hope  was  effulgent,  and  lithe  gayety  disported  itself,  and  joy 
was  with  every  guest.  Amid  all  the  inconveniences  of  the  voyage,  there 
was  still  that  which  hushed  every  murmur, — "Home  is  not  far  away." 
And  every  morning  it  was  still  one  night  nearer  home !  Eight  days  had 
passed.  They  beheld  that  distant  bank  of  mist  that  forever  haunts  the 
vast  shallows  of  Newfoundland.  Boldly  they  made  it ;  and  plunging  in, 
its  pliant  wreaths  wrapped  them  about.  They  shall  never  emerge.  The 
last  sunlight  has  fla.shed  from  that  dock.  The  last  voyage  is  done  to  ship 
and  passengers.  At  noon  there  came  noiselessly  stealing  from  the  north 
that  fated  instrument  of  destruction.  In  that  mysterious  shroud,  that 
vast  atmosphere  of  mist,  both  steamers  were  holding  their  way  with  rush- 
ing prow  and  roaring  wheels,  but  invisibli-. 

At  a  league's  distance,  unconscious;  and  at  nearer  approach,  un- 
warned ;  within  hail,  and  bearing  right  toward  each  other,  unseen,  unfelt, 
till  in  a  moment  more,  emerging  from  the  gray  mists,  the  ill-omened  Vesta 
dealt  her  deadly  stroke  to  the  Arctic.  The  death-blow  was  scarcely  felt 
along  the  mighty  hull.  She  neither  reeled  nor  shivered.  Neither  com- 
mander nor  officers  deemed  that  they  had  sutVored  harm.  Prompt  upon 
humanity,  the  brave  Luce  (let  his  name  bo  over  spoken  with  ,i(]iiiir;iti<ui 
and  respect)  ordered  away  his  boat  with  the  first  officer  to  incjuiro  if  the 
stranger  had  Hufferod  harm.  As  Gourley  wont  over  the  shi))'s  side,  oh, 
that  some  good  angel  had  called  to  tho  brave  commanded-  in  the;  words  of 


DOROTHY  SULLIVAN. 


685 


Paul  on  a  like  occasion,   "  Except  these  abide  in  the  ship,  ye  cannot  be 
saved." 

They  departed,  and  with  them  the  hope  of  the  ship,  for  now  the  waters 
gaining  upon  the  hold,  and  rising  upon  the  tires,  revealed  the  mortal  blow. 
Oh,  had  now  that  stern,  brave  mate,  Gourley,  been  on  deck,  whom  the 
sailors  were  wont  to  mind, — had  he  stood  to  execute  sufficiently  the  com- 
mander's will, — we  may  believe  that  we  should  not  have  had  to  blush  for 
the  cowardice  and  recreancy  of  the  crew,  nor  weep  for  the  untimely  dead. 
But,  apparently,  each  subordinate  officer  lost  all  presence  of  mind,  then 
courage,  and  so  honor.  In  a  wild  scramble,  that  ignoble  mob  of  firemen, 
engineers,  waiters,  and  crew,  rushed  for  the  boats,  and  abandoned  the 
helpless  women,  children,  and  men,  to  the  mercy  of  the  deep!  Four  hours 
there  were  from  the  catastrophe  of  collision  to  the  catastrophe  of  sinking ! 
Oh,  what  a  burial  was  here !  Not  as  when  one  is  borne  from  his  home, 
among  weeping  throngs,  and  gently  carried  to  the  green  fields,  and  laid 
peacefully  beneath  the  turf  and  flowers.  No  priest  stood  to  pronounce  a 
burial-service.  It  was  an  ocean  grave.  The  mists  alone  shrouded  the 
burial-place.  No  spade  prepared  the  grave,  nor  sexton  filled  up  the  hol- 
lowed earth.  Down,  down  they  sank,  and  the  quick  returning  waters 
smoothed  out  every  ripple,  and  left  the  sea  as  if  it  had  not  been. 


DOROTHY  SULLIVAN. 


|H !  a  wedding  ring's  pretty  to  wear, 
And  a  bride  of  all  women  is  fair, 
But    then    there's    no  trusting 

in  men  ; 
And   if  I   were  a  girl  I'd  have 

lovers  beware, 
They    may   court    you    to-day, 
sweet  as  birds  in  the  May, 
But  to-morrow  look  out    they'll  be  all  flown 

away.'' 
Old  Dolly  Sullivan  shook  her  gray  head, 
Lovers  were   now  the   last  thing  she  need 

dread. 
But  you  never  can  tell  who  has  once  been  a 

belle. 
"  Sweethearts  !  I've  had  'em  !  I  know  'em  !'' 
she  said. 

"  Just  as  long  as  your  company's  new, 
There  is  no  one  that's  equal  to  you. 


You  then  can  have  choice  of  the  men. 

It's  the  black  eyes  to-day  and  to-morrow  the 

blue. 
I  once  had  a  brocade  for  my  wedding  gown 

made. 
On  the  shelf  of  the  store-room  my  wedding 

cake  laid. 
Never  that  cake  on  the  table  was  set. 
Here  I  am,  Dorothy  Sullivan  yet. 
Let  it  go  !  Let  it  go !  I  am  glad  it  was  so  ; 
Hardly  earned  leisons  we're  slow  to  forget. 

"  Could  I  keep  all  now  that  I  know 

With  the  face  that  I  had  long  ago, 

Ah  !  then  I  would  pay  back  the  men  •, 

I  would  a  small  part  of  the  debt  that  I  owe, 

For  't  is  little  care  they,  spite  the  fine  things 

they  say. 
How  a  woman's  heart  aches,  if  they  have 

their  own  way. 


686  THE  EXECUTION  OF  MADAME  ROLAM). 


Promises  !  little  they  keep  men  in  awe  \  When  your  wedding  gown's  on  ;     and  j'our 

Trust  'em !  I'd  sooner  trust  snow  in  a  thaw,  |  bridegroom  is  gone, 

For  they're  easy  to  make  ;  and  more  easy  to  !  You  must  take  oflF  that  gown,  and  sit  quietly 
break.  I  down." 

Old  Dolly  Sullivan  shook  her  gray  head. 
"  Children  once  burnt  of  the  fire  have  a  dread, 
Let  your  love  stories  be  when  you're  talking 

to  me, 
Sweethearts !  I've  had  'em,  I  know  'em,"  she 


Keep'in  'em's  something  that  never  I  saw. 

"  When    you    come   to  your   own    wedding 

morn. 
Just  to  find  you're  a  maid  left  forlorn, 
Ah  !  then,  where's  your  faith  in  the  men  '(      '  said. 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  MADAME  ROLAND. 


LAMARTINE. 


^  ^  ||^  AM  going  to  the  guillotine,"  replied  Madame  Roland ;    "  a  few 

1^     moments  and  I  shall  be   there ;  but  those  who  send  me  thither 

':;','      will   follow   me    ere  long.     I  go    innocent,   but    they  will  come 

*|^      stained  with  blood,  and  you  who  applaud  our  execution  will  then 

I       applaud  theirs  with  equal  zeal."    Sometimes  she  would  turn  away 

1       her  head  that  she  might  not  appear  to  hear  the  insults  with  which 

she  was  assailed,  and  would  lean   with  almost  'filial  tenderness  over  the 

aged  partner  of  her  execution.     The  poor  old  man  wept  bitterly,  and  she 

kindly  and  cheeringly  encouraged  him  to  bear  up  with  firmness,  and  to 

suffer  with  resignation.    She  even  tried  to  enliven  the  dreary  journey  they 

were  performing  together  by  little  attempts  at  cheerfulness,  and  at  length 

succeeded  in  winning  a  smile  from  her  fellow-sufferer. 

A  colossal  statue  of  liberty,  composed  of  clay,  like  the  liberty  of  the 
time,  then  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  on  the  spot 
now  occupied  by  the  Obelisk ;  the  scaffold  was  erected  beside  his  statue. 
Upon  arriving  there,  Madame  Roland  descended  from  the  cart  in  which 
she  had  been  conveyed.  Just  as  the  executioner  had  seized  her  arm  to 
enable  her  to  be  the  first  to  mount  to  the  guillotine,  she  displayed  an  in- 
stance of  that  noble  and  tender  consideration  for  others,  which  only  a 
woman's  heart  f;ould  conceive,  or  put  into  practice  at  such  a  moment. 
"  Stay!  "  said  she,  momentarily  rosisting  thf^  man's  gnisp.  "  1  have  only 
one  favor  to  ask,  and  that  is  not  for  myself;  I  beseech  you  grant  it  mo." 
Then,  turning  to  the  old  man,  she  said,  "  Do  you  precede"  me  to  the  scaf- 
fold ;  to  see  my  blood  flr)w  would  be  making  you  suffer  tlio  bittorncHs  of 
death  twice  over.  I  must  spare  you  the  pain  of  witnessing  my  j»unish- 
ment."     The  executioner  allowed  this  arrangement  to  be  made. 


THE  BALD-HEADED  TYRANT. 


687 


With  what  sensibility  and  firmness  must  the  mind  have  been  imbued 
which  could,  at  such  a  time,  forget  its  own  sufferings,  to  think  only  of 
saving  one  pang  to  an  unknown  old  man  !  and  how  clearly  does  this  one 
little  trait  attest  the  heroic  calmness  with  which  this  celebrated  woman  met 
her  death  !  After  the  execution  of  Lamarche,  which  she  witnessed  with- 
out changing  color,  Madame  Roland  stepped  lightly  up  to  the  scaffold,  and, 
howing  before  the  statue  of  Liberty,  as  though  to  do  homage  to  a  power  far 
whom  she  was  about  to  die,  exclaimed,  "  0  Liberty  !  Liberty !  how  many 
crimes  are  committed  in  thy  name !  "  She  then  resigned  herself  to  the 
hands  of  the  executioner,  and  in  a  few  seconds  her  head  fell  into  the  basket 
placed  to  receive  it. 


THE  BALD-HEADED  TYRANT. 


MARY    E.   VANDYKE. 


^^|{H  !  the  quietest  home  on  earth  had  I, 
jHoR    No  thought  of  trouble,  no  hint  of 
care; 
Like  a  dream  of  pleasure   the  days 
fled  by, 

X  And  Peace  had  folded  her  pinions 

J  there. 

But  one  day  there  joined  in  our  house- 
hold band 
A.  bald-headed  tyrant  from  No-man's-land. 

Oh,  the  despot  came  in  the  dead  of  night, 
And  no  one  ventured  to  ask  him  why; 

Like  slaves  we  trembled  before  his  might, 
Our  hearts  stood  still  when  we  heard  him 
cry; 

For  never  a  soul  could  his  power  withstand, 

That  bald-headed  tyrant  from  No-man's-land. 

Tie  ordered  us  here,  and  he  sent  us  there — 
Though  never  a  word  could  his  small  lips 
speak — 

With  his  toothless  gums  and  his  vacant  stare, 
And  his  helpless  limbs  so  frail  and  weak, 

Till  I  cried,  in  a  voice  of  stern  command, 

"Go  up,  thou  bald-head  from  No-man's-land." 

But  his  abject  slaves  they  turned  on  me: 
Like  the  bears  in  Scripture,  they'd  rend  me 
there, 


The  while  they  worshiped  with  bended  knee 
The  ruthless  wretch  with  the  missing  hair , 
For  he  rules  them  all  with  relentless  hand. 
This  bald-headed  tyrant  from  No-man's-land. 


Then  I  searched  for  help  in  every  clime, 
For  Peace  had  fled  from  my  dwelling  now 

Till  I  finally  thought  of  old  Father  Time, 
And  low  before  him  I  made  my  bow. 

"Wilt  thou  deliver  me  out  of  his  hand, 

This  bald-headed    tyrant    from    No-man's- 
land." 

Old  Time  he  looked  with  a  puzzled  stare, 
And  a  smile  came  over  his  features  grim. 

I'll  take  the  tyrant  under  my  care : 

Watch  what  my  hour-glass  does  to  him. 

The  veriest  humbug  that  ever  was  planned 

Is  this  same  bald-head  from  No-man's-land. 


688 


THE  GAMBLER'S  WIFE. 


Old  Time  is  doing  his  work  full  well — 

Much  less  of  might  does  the  tyrant  wield ; 
But,  ah !  with  sorrow  my  heart  will  swell 

And  sad  tears  fall  as  I  see  him  yield. 
Could   I   stay  the   touch   of  that  shriveled 

hand 
I  would  keep  the  bald-head  from  No-man's- 
land. 


For  the  loss  of  peace  I  have  ceased  to  care ; 

Like  other  vassals,  I've  learned,  forsooth, 
To  love  the  wretch  who  forgot  his  hair. 

And  hurried  along  without  a  tooth. 
And  he  rules  me,  too,  with  bjs  tiny  hand, 
This    bald-headed   tyrant    from    No-man's- 
land. 


THE  GAMBLERS  WIFE. 


REYNELL   COATES. 


VRK  is  the  night!    How  dark '    No 
^  light :  no  fire  ! 

^'^^ete?     Cold,  on  the  hearth,  the  last  faint 
sparks  expire! 
Shivering,  she  watches  by  the  cradle- 
side, 
For  him,  who  pledged  her  love — last  year 
a  bride ! 

"  Hark  !  't  is  his  footstep  !     No  !  't  is  past  !- 

't  is  gone!" 
Tick  ! — tick  ! — "  How  wearily  the  time  crawls 

on! 
Why  should  he  leave  me  thus? — He  once 

was  kind  ! 
And  I  believed  't  would  last ! — How  mad  ! — 

How  blind  ! 

"  Rest  thee,  my  babe  ! — Rest  on  ! — Tis  hun- 
ger's cry ! 

Bleep ! — for  there  is  no  food ! — the  fount  is  dry ! 

Famine  and  cold  their  wearying  work  have 
done. 

My  heart  must  break !  And  thou !"  The 
clock  strikes  one. 

"  Hush !  't  is  the  dice-box !  Yes  !  he's  there ! 

he's  there  I 
For  this! — for  this  he  leaves  me  to  despair' 
Loaven    love!    loavos   truth!    his  wife  I    his 

child!  for  what' 
Th"'   wanton's  smile — the    villain — and    tlie 

sot' 

'Yet  I'll  not  curse  him.  No!  't  iH  all  in 
vain! 


'T  is  long  to  wait,  but  pure  ho'll  como  again 
And  I  could  starve,  and  bless  him,  but  (or  you, 
My  child  !  his  child  !  Oh,  fiend!"     The  clock 
strikes  two. 

"  Hark  !    how   the   signboard   creaks !     The 

blast  howls  by. 
Moan !  Moan  !    a  dirge  swells  through  the 

cloudy  sk)'^ ! 
Ha !  't  is  his  knock !   he  comes !   he  comes 

once  more !" 
'Tis  but  the  lattice  flaps  !     Thy  hope  is  o'er  ! 

"  Can  he  desert  us  thus?     He  knows  I  stay, 
Night  after  night,  in  loneliness,  to  pray 
For  his  return — and  yet  he  sees  no  tear ! 
No  !  no !  it  cannot  be  !     He  will  be  here ! 

"Nestle  more  closely,  dear  one,  to  my  heart 
Thou'rt  cold !  thou'rt  freezing !     But  we  will 

not  part ! 
Hu.sband ! — I  die ! — Father! — It  is  not  ho! 
0  God !  protect  my  child  !"    The  clock  strikeF 

three. 

They're  gone,  thoy're  gone  !  the  glimmering 

spark  hath  flod ! 
The  wife  :ind   chiM  arc  numbered  with  Ibo 

dead, 
On   the  cold  hoartli,  out-strctcbcd  in  solemn 

rest. 
The  babe  lay,  frozen  on  its  mother's  breast. 
Till!  ^^ambler  came  at  hist — but  all  was  o'er— 
Dread    silence   reigned    around: — the   clock 

struck  four  ! 


WHERE  SHALL  THE  BABY'S  DIMPLE  BE? 


689 


TO  A  FRIEND  IN  AFFLICTION. 


WILLIAM    MUNFORD. 


^ 


KNOW  in  grief  like  yours  how  more 
than  vain 
All  comfort  to   the   stricken  heart 
appears ; 
And  as  the  bursting  cloud  must  spend 
^  its  rain, 

T  So  grief  its  tears. 

I   know   that    when    your    little    darling's 
form 
Had  freed  the  angel  spirit  fettered  there, 
You  could  not  pierce  beyond  the  breaking 
storm, 

In  your  despair. 

You  could  not  see  the  tender  hand   that 
caught 
Your  little  lamb,  to  shield  him  from  all 
harm  ; 
You  missed  him  from  your  own,  but  never 
thought 

Of  Jesus'  arm ! 

You  only  knew  those  precious   eyes  were 
dim ; 
You  only  felt  those  tiny  lips  were  cold ; 
You  only  clung  to  what  remained  of  him 
Beneath  the  mould. 

But  oh  !    young  mother,  look  !   the  gate  un- 
bars ! 


And  through  the  darkness,  smiling  from 
the  skies, 
Are   beaming   on  you,  brighter   than  those 
stars, 

Your  darling's  eyes. 

'Tis  said  that  when  the  pastures  down  among 
The  Alpine  hills  have  ceased  to  feed  the 
flocks, 
And  they  must  mount  to  where  the  grass  ia 
young — 

Far  up  the  rocks, 

The  shepherd  takes  a  little  lamb  at  play. 

And  lifts  him  gently  to  his  careful  breast, 
And,  with  its  tender  bleating,  leads  the  way 
For  all  the  rest ; 

That  quick  the  mother  follows  in  the  pafih, 
Then  others  go,  like  men  whose  faith  gives 
hopes. 
And    soon    the    shepherd   gathers    all    he 
hath— 

Far  up  the  slopes. 

And  on  those  everlasting  hills  He  feeds 
The   trusting  fold    in  green    that    never 
palls ; 
Look  up  !  0  see !  your  little  darling  leads,— 
The  Shepherd  calls ! 


WHERE  SHALL  THE  BABY'S  DIMPLE  BE? 


J.  G.  HOLLAND. 


^VER  the  cradle  the  mother  hung. 
Soft])'  cooing  a  slumber  song, 
And   thepe  were  the  simple  words 
she  sung 
All  the  evening  long: 

'Cheek  or  chin,  or  knuckle  or  knee. 
Where  shall  the  baby's  dimple  be? 


Where  shall  the  angel's  finger  rest 
When  he  comes  down  to  the  baby's  nestf 
Where  shall  the  angel's  touch  remain 
When  he  awakens  my  baby  again  ? 
Still  she  bent  and  sang  so  low 

A  murmur  into  her  music  broke. 
And  she  paused  to  hear,  for  she  could  bu* 
know 


690 


DEFENCE  OF  TEA  DEL  TOR. 


The  baby's  angel  spoke : 
"Cheek  or  chin,  or  knuckle  or  knee, 
Where  shall  the  baby's  dimple  be  ? 
\\Tiere  shall  my  finger  fall  and  rest 
When  I  come  down  to  the  baby's  nest  ? 
Where  shall  my  finger's  touch  remain 
When  I  wake  your  babe  again  ?" 

Silent  the  mother  sat  and  dwelt 
Long  on  the  sweet  delay  of  choice, 


And  then  by  her  baby's  side  she  knelt 
And  sang  with  pleasant  voice : 

"  Not  on  the  limb,  0  angel  dear! 
For  the  charms  with  its  youth   will    dis- 
appear ; 
Not  on  the  cheek  shall  the  dimple  be, 
For  the  harboring  smile  will  fade  and  flee; 
But  touch  thou  the  chin  with  impress  deep, 
And  my  baby  the  angel's  seal  shall  keep." 


DEFENCE  OF  PRA  DEL  TOR. 


A 


J.  A.  WYLIE. 


Negotiations  had  been  opened  between  the  men  of  the  Valleys  and 
the  Duke  of  Savoy,  and  as  they  were  proceeding  satisfactorily,  the 
^*  ' "i  Vaudois  were  without  suspicions  of  evil.  This  was  the  moment 
A"  that  La  Trinita  chose  to  attack  them.     He  hastily  assembled   his 

I  troops,  and  on  the  night  of  the  16th  of   April  he  marched  them 

1  against  the  Pi'a  di'l  Tor,  hoping  to  enter  it  unopposed,  and  give 

the  Vaudois  "  as  sheep  to  the  slaughter." 

The  snows  around  the  Pra  were  beginning  to  burn  in  the  light  of  the 
morning  when  the  attention  of  the  people,  who  had  just  ended  their  united 
worship,  was  attracted  by  unusual  sounds  which  were  heard  to  issue  from 
the  gorge  that  led  into  the  valley.  On  the  instant  six  brave  mountaineers 
rushed  to  the  gateway  that  opens  from  the  gorge.  The  long  file  of  La 
Trinita's  soldiers  was  seen  advancing  two  abreast,  their  helmets  and  cuiras- 
ses gHttering  in  the  light.  The  six  Vaudois  made  their  arrangements,  and 
calmly  waited  till  the  enemy  was  near.  The  first  two  Vaudois,  holding 
loaded  muskets,  knelt  down.  The  second  two  stood  erect  ready  to  fire 
over  tlio  heads  of  tlie  first  two.  Th(!  third  two  undertook  the  loading  of 
the  weapons  as  they  wen;  dis(;harged.  The  invad(;rs  came  on.  As  the 
first  two  of  the  enemy  turned  the  rock  th(!y  were  shot  down  by  the  two 
foremost  Vaudois.  The  next  two  of  the  attacking  force  fell  in  like  manner 
by  the  shot  of  the  Vaudois  in  the  rear.  Tlie  third  rank  of  the  enemy  pre- 
sented themselves  only  to  be  laid  l)y  the  side  of  tlieir  comrades.  In  a  few 
minutes  a  little  heap  of  dead  bodi<!H  blocked  the  pass,  rend<!ring  impossible 
the  advance  of  the  accumulating  file  of  the  enemy  in  the  chasm. 

Meanwhile,  other  Vaudois  climbed  the  mountains  that  overhung   thg 


DEFENCE  OF  ^RA  DEL  TOR. 


691 


gorge  in  which  the  Piedmontese  army  was  imprisoned.     Tearing  up  the 
great  stones  with  which   the  hill-side  was  strewn,  the  Vaudois  sent  them 


rolling  down  upon  the  host.     Unable  to  advance  from  the  wall  of  dead  in 
front,  and  unable  to  flee  from  the  ever  accumulating  masses  behind,  th« 


692 


THE  CHILDREN'S  CHURCH. 


soldiers  were  crushed  in  dozens  by  the  falUng  rocks.  Panic  set  in ;  and 
famine  in  such  a  position  was  dreadful.  Wedged  together  on  the  narrow 
ledge,  with  a  mui'derous  rain  of  rocks  falling  on  them,  their  struggles  to 
escape  was  frightful.  They  jostled  one  another,  and  trod  each  other  under 
foot,  while  vast  numbers  fell  over  the  precipice,  and  were  dashed  on  the 
rocks  or  drowned  in  the  torrent. 

When  those  at  the  entrance  of  the  valley  who  were  watching  the  result 
saw  the  crystal  of  the  Angrogna  begin  about  midday  to  be  changed  into 
blood,  "Ah!  "  said  they,  "the  Pra  del  Tor  has  been  taken;  La  Trinita 
has  triumphed ;  then  flows  the  blood  of  the  Vaudois."  And,  indeed,  the 
Count  on  beginning  his  march  that  morning  is  said  to  have  boasted  that 
by  noon  the  torrent  of  the  Angrogna  would  be  seen  to  change  color ;  and 
so  in  truth  it  did.  Instead  of  a  pellucid  stream,  rolling  along  on  a  white 
gravelly  bed,  which  is  its  usual  appearance  at  the  mouth  of  the  valley,  it 
was  now  deeply  dyed  from  recent  slaughter.  But  when  the  few  who  had 
escaped  the  catastrophe  returned  to  tell  what  had  that  day  passed  within 
the  defiles  of  the  Angrogna,  it  was  seen  that  it  was  not  the  blood  of  the 
Vaudois,  but  the  blood  of  the  ruthless  invaders,  which  dyed  the  waters  of 
the  Angrogna.  The  Count  withdrew  on  that  same  night,  to  return  no 
more  to  the  Valley. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  CHURCH. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  PAUL  GEROT. 


HE  bells  of  the  church  are  ringing, 
Papa  and  mamma  are  both  gone; 
And  three  little  childn-n  sit  singing 
Together  this  still  Sunday  morn. 


Whili;  the  bells  toll  away  in  the  steeple, 
Though  too  small  to  sit  still  in  a  pew. 

These  busy,  religious  small  people 
Determined  to  have  their  church  too. 


So  as  free  as  the  birds  or  the  breezes 
Ry  which  tlieir  fair  ringlets  are  fanned, 

I'^Kth  rogiit^  sings  away  as  he  plea.ses. 
With  book  ujisidf!  down  in  his  hand. 

Tlifiir  hyirin  lias  no  si-n.-f  in  its  b-ttrr, 
Thfir  Kuisic  no  rythm  nor  tuno ; 

Our  Worship  perhaps  may  be  better, 
But  thcirt  reaches  Ood  <|uit<;  aa  noou. 


Their  angels  stand  close  to  the  Father, 
His  Heaven   is   made  bright  by   these 
flowers ; 

And  the  dear  God  above  us  would  rather 
Hear  praise  from  their  lips  than  from  ours. 

Sing  on,  little  children,  your  voices 

Fill  the  air  with  contentment  and  lovo; 

All  nature  around  you  rejoices 

And  tilt;  birds  warble  sweetly  above. 

Sing  on,  for  the  proudest  orations, 

The  liturgies  sacred  and  long. 
The  anthems  and  worshij)  of  nations 

Are  poor,  to  your  innocent  song. 

Sing  on :  our  devotion  is  colder, 

Tliongh  wisely  our  prayers  may  be  planned, 
For  f)ft/>n  we,  too,  who  are  ol<l<;r, 

Hold  our  book  the  wrong  way  in  our  hand. 


THE  CHAMBER  OVER  THE  GATE. 


C93 


Sing  on  :  our  harmonic  inventions 
We  study  witii  labor  and  pain  ; 

Yet  often  our  angry  contentions 
Take  the  harmony  out  of  our  strain. 


Sing  on  :  all  our  struggle  and  battle, 
Our  cry,  when  most  deep  and  sincere- 

What  are  they  ?  a  child's  simple  prattle, 
A  breath  on  the  Infinite  eaj 


THE  CHAMBER  OVER  THE  GATE. 


H.  W,  LONGFELLOW. 


'  it  -fi  far  from  thee 
Tlinii  canst  no  longer  see, 
®|      In  the  Chamber  over  the  Gate, 


That  old  man  desolate, 
Weeping  and  wailing  sore 
For  bis  i<on,  who  is  no  more? 
0  Absalom,  my  son. 

Is  it  so   long  ago 

That  cry  of  human  woe 
From  the  walled  city  came. 
Calling  on  his  dear  name, 

That  it  has  died  away 

In  the  distance  of  to-day? 
0  Ab.«alom,  my  son? 

There  is  no  far  or  near. 
There  is  neither  there  nor  here. 
There  is  neither  soon  nor  late. 
In  that  Chamber  over  the  Gate, 


Nor  any  long  ago 
To  that  cry  of  human  woe, 
O  Absalom,  my  son  ! 

From  the  ages  that  are  past 
The  voice  sounds  like  a  blast. 
Over  seas  that  wreck  and  drown, 
Over  tumult  of  traffic  and  town, 
And  for  ages  yet  to  be 
Come  the  echoes  back  to  me, 
O  Absalom,  my  son  ! 

Somewhere,  at  ever}'  hour. 

The  watchman  on  the  tower 
Looks  forth,  and  sees  the  fleet 
Approach  of  the  hurrying  feet 

Of  messengers,  that  bear 

The  tidings  of  despair. 
0  Absalom,  my  son  ! 

He  goes  forth  from  the  door, 
Who  shall  return  no  more. 

With  him  our  joy  departs; 

The  light  goes  out  in  our  heartfl ; 
In  the  Chamber  over  the  Gate 
We  sit  disconsolate. 

0  Absalom,  my  son  I 

That  'tis  a  common  grief 

Bringeth  but  slight  relief; 
Ours  is  the  bitterest  loss. 
Ours  is  the  heaviest  cross  ; 

And  forever  that  cry  will  be, 

"  Would  God  I  had  died  for  thee, 
0  Absalom,  my  son  !  " 


694 


THE  EGGS  AND  THE  HORSES. 


GOD  IN  THE  SEAS. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


jHESE  restless  surges   eat   away  the 

shores  [plain 

=^^gW  Of  earth's  old  continent-;  the  fertile 


\Velters  in  shallow?,  headlands  crui 


And  the  tide  drifts  the  sea-sand  in  the  streeti 
Of  the   drowned   city.      Thou,    meanwhile, 

afar 
In  the  green  chambers  of  the  middle  sea, 
Where  broadest  spread   the   waters   and  the 

line 
Sinks  deepest,    while    no    eye   beholds   thy 

work, 
Creator  !  thou  dost  teach  the  coral  worm 
To  lay  his  mighty  reefs.    From  age  to  age, 
He  builds  beneath  the  waters,  till,  at  last, 
His  bulwarks  overtop  the  brine,  and  check 
The  long  wave  rolling  from   the  southern 

pole 
To  break  upon  Japan. 


TEE  EGGS  AND  THE  HORSES. 


A   MATRIMONIAL    EriC. 


sOHN  Dobbins  was  so  captivated 

By   Mary   Trueman's  fortune,  face 
and  cap, 
(With  near  two  thousand  pounds  the 
hook  was  baited,) 
That   in  he  popped  to  matrimony's 
trap. 

One  small  ingredient  towards  happiness. 
It  seerns,  ne'er  occupied   a  single  thought; 
For  his  accomplished  bride 
Appearing  well  suj'plied 
With    the   three   charms   of  riches,  Wauty, 
dress, 
He  did  not,  a.**  lie  ought, 
Think  of  anght  else ;   so  no  inquiry  made  he 
Ah  to  the  temper  of  the  lady. 

.\nd  here  was  certainly  a  great  omisBion  ; 
None  should  accept  of  Hyinen's  gentle  fet- 
ter. 

"  For  wor.st;  or  better," 


Whatever  be  their  prospect  or  condmon, 

Without  acquaintance  with  each  other's 

nature ; 
For  many  a  mild  and  gentle  crcaiure 
Of  charming  disposition, 

Alas !    by    thoughtless   marriage   has   de- 
stroyed it. 
So  take   advice ;    let  girls  dress  o'er  so 

tastily. 
Don't  enter  into  wedlock  liastily 
Unless  you  can't  avoid  it. 

Week  followed  week  and,  it  must  be  confes^ 
The  bridegroom  and  the  bride  had  both  been 

blest: 
Month  after  nioiitli  liail  languidly  transpired 
Both  parties  became  tired  : 
Year  after  year  draggijd  on  ; 
Their  liajijjineHs  was  gone. 

Ah'  fo<.liHh  pair! 
"  Bear  and  f Jibiar," 


THE  EGGS  AND  THE  HORSES. 


09.' 


Should  be  the  rule  for  married  folks  to  take, 
But  blind    mankind    (poor    discontented 
elves !) 

Too  often  make 

The  misery  of  themselves. 

At  length  the  husband  said  "  This  will  not  do ! 

Mary,  I  never  will  be  ruled  by  you : 

So,  wife,  d'ye  see? 

To  live  together  as  we  can't  agree, 

Suppose  we  part !" 

With  woman's  pride, 

Mary  replied, 

"With  all  my  heart!" 

John  Dobbins  then  to  Mary's  father  goes 
And  gives  the  list  of  his  imagined  woes. 
'■  Dear  son-in-law  ! ''  the  father  said,  •'  I  see 
All  is  quite  true  that  you've  been  telling  me  ; 
Yet  there  in  marriage  is  such  strange  fatality, 
That  when  as  much  of  life 

You  will  have  seen 

As  it  has  been 
My  lot  to  see,  I  think  you'll  own   your  wife 

As  good  or  better  than  the  generality. 

"  An  interest  in  your  case  I  really  take, 
And  therefore  gladly  this  agreement  make: 
An  hundred  eggs  within  this  basket  lie. 
With  which  your  luck  to-morrow   you  shall 

try  ; 
Also  my  five  best  horses  with  my  cart ; 
And  from  the  farm  at  dawn  you  shall  depart. 
All  round  the  country  go, 

And  be  particular,  I  beg  ; 
Where  husbands  rule,  a  horse  bestow. 

But  where  the  wives,  an  egg. 
And  if  the  horses  go  before  the  eggs, 
I'll  ease  you  of  your  wife, — I  will — I  fegs!  " 

Away  the  married  man  departed, 

Brisk  and  light-hearted ; 

Not  doubting  that,  of  course, 

The  first  five  houses  each  would  take  a  horse. 

At  the  first  house  he  knocked, 

He  felt  a  little  shocked 

To  hear  a  female  voice,  with  angry  roar. 
Scream  out, — Hullo  ! 
"ho  3  there  below  ? 

V/hy,   husband,  are   you  deaf  ?     Go  to  lb  j 
door, 


See  who  it  is,  I  beg." 

Our  poor  friend  John 

Trudged  quickly  on, 
But  first  laid  at  the  door  an  egg. 

I  will  not,  all  his  journey  through, 
The  discontented  traveler  pursue  ; 

Suffice  it  here  to  say 
That  when   his  first   day's  task   was  nearly 

done, 
He'd  seen  an  hundred  husbands,  minus  one, 
And  eggs  just  ninety-nine  had  given  away. 
"  Ha,  here's   a  house   where  he  I  seek  must 

dwell," 
At  length  cried  John  ;  "  I'll  go  and  ring  the 

bell." 

The  servant  came, — John  asked  him,  "  Pray, 
Friend,  is  your  master  in  the  way  ?  " 
"No,"  said  the  man,  with  smiling  phiz, 
"  My  master  is  not,  but  my  mistress  is ; 
Walk  in  that  parlor,  sir,  my  lady's  in  it : 
Master  will  be  himself  there  in  a  minute.  ' 
The  lady  said  her  husband  then  was  dressirg. 
And,  if  his  business  was  not  very  pressing, 

She  would  prefer  that  he  should  wait  until 
His  toilet  was  completed  ; 
Adding,  "  Pray,  sir,  be  seated." 

"  Madam,  I  will," 
Said  John,  with  great  politeness  ;  "but  I  own 
That  you  alone 

Can  tell  me  all  I  wish  to  know; 
Will  you  do  so  ? 
Pardon  my  rudeness. 
And  just  have  the  goodness 
(A  wager  to  decide)  to  tell  me — do — 
Who  governs  in  this  house, — your  spouse  or 

you  ?  " 
"  Sir,"  said  the  lady  with  a  doubting  nod, 
"  Your  question's  very  odd  ; 
But  as. I  think  none  ought  to  be 
Ashamed  to  do  their  duty  (do  you  see '') 
On  that  account  I  scruple  not  to  say 
It  always  is  my  pleasure  to  obey. 
But  here's  my  husband  (always  sad  without 

me) ; 
Take   not   my  word,   but   ask  him,    if  yoo 
doubt  me." 

"Sir,"  said  the  husband  "  it  is  most  true; 
I  promise  you, 


696 


RAMBLINGS  IN  GREECE. 


A  more  obedient,  kind,  and  gentle  woman 
Does  not  exist." 

And  this  one  will  exactly  do  for  me." 
"  No,  no,"  said  he. 

"  Give  me  your  fist," 
Said  John,   and,  as  the  case  is  something 
more  than  common. 

"  Friend,  take  the  four  others  back, 
And  only  leave  the  black." 
"  Nay,  husband,  I  declare 

Allow  me  to  present  you  with  a  beast 
Worth  fifty  guineas  at  the  very  least. 

"  There's  Srniler,  Sir,  a  beauty,  you  must  own, 
There's  Prince  that  handsome  black. 

I  must  have  the  gray  mare:" 

Adding  (with  gentle  force), 

"  The  gray  mare  is,  I'm  sure,  the  better  horse ' 

"  Well,  if  it  must  be  so, — good  Sir, 

Ball  the  gray  mare,  and  Saladin  the  roan, 

Beside  old  Dun ; 

Come,  Sir,  choose  one ; 

But  take  a.dvice  from  me, 

Let  Prince  be  he ; 
Why,  Sir,  you'll  look  the  hero  on  his  back." 

The  gray  mare  %ue  prefer  ; 

So  we  accept  your  gift."     John  made  a  feg: 

"  Allow  me  to  present  you  with  an  egg ; 

'Tis  my  last  egg  remaining. 

The  cause  of  my  regaining, 

I  trust  the  fond  affection  of  my  wife. 

"  I'll  take  the  black,  and  thank  you,  too." 

Whom  I  will  love  the  better  of  my  life. 

"  Nay,  husband,  that  will  never  do  ; 

"Home    to    content    has    her    kind    fatlu- 

You  know  you've  often  heard  me  say 
How  much  I  long  to  have  a  gray ; 

brought  me ; 
I  thank  him  for  the  lesson  he  has  taught  me  ' 

BAMBLINaS  IN  GREECE. 


ROSSITER   W.    RAY.MOND. 


jN  Paestum's  ancient  fanes  I  trod. 

And  muned  on  those  ntrangc  men  of  old, 
WhoHO  dark  religion  could  unfold 
^      So  many  gods,  and  yot  no  God. 


i 


Did  thny  to  luiman  feelings  own, 
And  had  they  human  souls  indeed' 
Or  did  the  stcrnnefls  of  their  creiMl 
iTown  thoir  faint  spirits  into  utoneV 


OUT  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE,  NAXCV. 


G97 


The  southern  breezes  fan  my  face  ; — 
I  hear  the  hum  of  bees  arise, 

And  lizards  dart,  with  mystic  eyes 
That  shrine  the  secret  of  the  place! 


These  silent  columns  speak  of  dread; 

Of  lonely  worship  without  love; 
And  yet  the  warm,  deep  heaven  above 

Whispers  a  softer  tale  instead ! 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  YOUTH. 


THEODORE  PARKER. 

J^OW  beautiful  is  youth, — early  manhood,  early  womanhood, — how 
wonderfully  fair!  What  freshness  of  life,  cleanness  of  blood,  purity 
of  breath  !  What  hopes  !  There  is  nothing  too  much  for  the  young 
maid  or  man  to  put  into  their  dream,  and  in  their  prayer  to  hope 
to  put  in  their  day.  0  young  men  and  women !  there  is  no  picture 
of  ideal  excellence  of  manhood  and  womanhood  that  I  ever  draw 
that  seems  too  high,  too  beautiful  for  young  hearts. 

I  love  to  look  on  these  young  faces,  and  see  the  firstlings  of  a  youno- 
man's  beard,  and  the  maidenly  bloom  blushing  over  the  girl's  fair  cheek. 
I  love  to  see  the  pure  eyes  beaming  A?dth  joy  and  goodness,  to  see  the  un- 
conscious joy  of  such  young  souls,  impatient  of  restraint,  and  longing  for 
the  heaven  which  we  fashion  here. 

So  have  I  seen  in  early  May,  among  the  New  England  hills,  the  morning 
springing  in  the  sky,  and  gradually  thinning  out  the  stars  that  hedge 
about  the  cradle  of  day ;  and  all  cool  and  fresh  and  lustrous  came  the 
morning  light,  and  a  few  birds  commenced  their  songs,  prophets  of  veiT 
many  more ;  and  ere  the  sun  was  fairly  up,  you  saw  the  pinky  buds  upon 
the  apple  trees,  and  scented  the  violets  in  the  mcrning  air,  and  thouo-ht 
of  what  a  fresh  and  lordly  day  was  coming  up  the  eastern  sky. 


OUT  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE,  NANCY. 


WILL    M.    CARLETON. 


^Pl^UT  of  the  old  house  Nancy — moved  up 
into  the  new ; 

r^All  the  hurry  and  worry  are  just  as 
good  as  through ; 


"Uliat  a  shell  we've  lived  in  these  nineteen  o. 

twenty  years  I 
Wonder   it  hadn't  smashed  in  and  tumbled 

about  our  ears ; 


Only  a  bounden  duty  remains  for  you  [  Wonder  it  stuck  together  and  answered   till 

and  I,  I  to-day. 

And  that's  to  stand  on  the  door-step      But  every  individual  log  was  put  up  here  to 
tiere  and  bid  the  old  house  good-bye.  >-tay. 


698 


OUT  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE,  XANCY. 


Yes,  a  deal  has  happened  to  make   this   old  !  Here  the  old  house  will  stand,  but  not  as   it 

house  dear  :  stood  bafore  ; 

Christenin's,  funerals,  weddin's— what  haven't  Winds  will  whistle  through  it  and  rains  will 

we  had  here  ''  flood  the  floor ; 

Not  a  log  in  this  old  buildin'  but  its   memo-  And  over  the  hearth  once  blazing,  the  snow 

ries  has  got —  drifts  oft  will  pile, 

And  not  a  nail  in  this  old  floor  but  touches  ;  And  the  old  thing  will  seem  to  be  a  mournin' 

a  tender  spot.  I          all  the  while. 


Ont  of  the  old  house,  Nancy— moved  up  into  I  Fare  you  well  old  house  !  you're  nought  that 

the  new  ;  "^an  feci  or  see, 

AH  the  hurry  and  worry  i.s  just  us  yoo-1  an  '   But   you  soem  like   a  human    being— a  dear 

through  ;  "ild  friend  to  mo  ; 

But  I  tell  you  a  thing  right  hero,  tii;it  I  ami      And  we  never  will  have  a  bettor  homo,  if  my 

aflhamed  to  Hay :  '  opinion  stands. 


There's  prerioufl  things  in  thi«  yld  houae  wc 
never  can  Uike  away. 


Until  wc  coniinnncc  a  kof])in'  ImuHo    in    ^he 
"  house  nut  made  with  Lands  '' 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILLREN. 


C99 


THE  MAPLE-TREE. 


IIEIS  on   the  world's  first  harvest- 

5^  The  lorest  trees  before  the  Lord 
Laid  down  their  autumn  offerings 
Of  fruit,  lu  golden  sunshine  stored, 

Tlie  Maple  only,  of  them  all, 
Before   the   world's   great  harvest 
King 
With  empty  hands  and  silent  stood — 
She  had  no  offering  to  bring 

For  in  the  early  summer  time. 

While  other  trees  laid  by  their  board, 

The  Maple  winged  her  fruit  with  love. 
And  sent  it  daily  to  the  Lord. 

There  ran  through  all  the  leafy  wood 

A  murmur  and  a  scornful  smile 
But  silent  still  the  Maple  stood, 

And  looked  unmoved  to  God  the  while. 


And  then,  while  U-W  on  earth  a  hush 
So  great  it  seemed  like  death  to  be. 

From  his  white  throne  the  mighty  Lord 
Stooped  down  and  kissed  the  Maple-tiee. 

At  that  swift  kiss  there  sudden  thrilled 
In  every  nerve,  through  every  vein. 

An  ecstasy  of  joy  so  great 

It  seemed  almost  akin  to  pain. 

And  there  before  the  forest  trees. 

Blushing  and  pale  by  turns  she  stood  ; 

In  every  leaf,  now  red  and  gold, 
Transfigured  by  the  kiss  of  God. 

And  still  when  comes  the  autumn  time. 
And  on  the  hills  the  harvest  lies. 

Blushing  the  Maple-tree  recalls 
Her  life's  one  beautiful  surprise. 


THE   CRY  OF  THE  CHILDREN. 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING. 


ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  0 
my  brothers. 
Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads 
against  their  mothers, — 
And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears, 
young   lambs  are  bleating  in  the 
meadows, 
The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest, 
The  young  fawns  are  playing  with  the  sha- 
dows, 
The  young  flowers  are  blowing  toward 
the  west — 
But  the  young,  young  children,  0  my  bro- 
thers. 
They  are  weeping  bitterly ! — 
They  are  weeping   in   the   playtime  of  the 
others, 
In  the  country  of  the  free. 


Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  their 
sorrow, 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so? — 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow, 

Which  is  lost  in  Long  Ago — 
The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  fore.^t — 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost — 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest — 

The  old  hope  is  harde-^^t  to  be  lost : 
But  the  young,  young  children,  0  mj'  bro- 
thers, 

Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 
Weeping   soro   before   the   bosoms   of   their 
mothers. 

In  our  happy  Fatherland? 

They  look  up  with   their  pale  and  auriken 
faces, 
And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see, 


TOO 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILLREN. 


For   the   man's   hoary   anguish   draws   and 
presses 
Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy  ; 
"  Your  old  earth,"  they  say,  "  is  very  dreary ;" 
"Our  young  feet,"  they  say,  "are  very 
weak ! 
Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary ; 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek. 
Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  and  not  the 
children, 
For  the  outside  earth  is  cold. 
And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our 
bewildering, 
And  the  graves  are  for  the  old." 

"True,"  say  the  children,  "it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time. 
Little   Alice   died    last  year — the   grave   is 
shapen 
Like  a  snowball,  in  the  rime. 
We  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take  her — 
Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close 
clay : 
From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  will 
wake  her, 
Crj'ing,  "Get  up,  little  Alice!  it  is  day." 
If  you  listen  by  that  grave,   in  sun   and 
shower. 
With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never 
cries ! 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should  not 
know  her, 
For  the  smile  has  time  for  growing  in 
her  eyes ! 
And  merry  go  her  moments,  lulled  and  stilled 
in 
The  shroud,  by  the  kirk  chime! 
"It  is  good  when  ithayipens,"  say  the  children, 
"That  we  die  before  our  time." 

Alas,  alas,  the  children !  they  are  seeking 

Death  in  life,  as  beat  to  have! 
They  arc  binding  up  their  hearts  away  from 
breaking, 
With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 
Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from  the 
city; 
Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes 
do;— 


Pluck  you  handfuls  of  the  meadow-cowslips 
pretty ; 


Laugh   aloud,  to   feel  your   fingers  let 
them  through ! 
But  they  answer,  "Are  your  cowslips  of  the 
meadows 
Like  our  weeds  anear  the  mine? 
Leave  us  quiet  in   the   dark   of  the  coal- 
shadows, 
From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine ! 

"  For  oh,"  say  the  children,  "we  are  weary, 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap; 
If  we  cared  for  any  meadows,  it  were  merely 

To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping; 

We  fall  upon  our  faces,  trying  to  go; 
And,  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  drooping, 

The  reddest  flower  would  look  as  pale 
as  snow. 
For,  all  day,  we  drag  our  burden  tiring 

Through  the  coal-dark  underground; 
Or,  all  day,  wo  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 

In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 

"  For,  all  day,  the  wheels  are  droning,  turn 

ing  — 
Tlieir  wind  comes  in  our  faces, — 
Till  Diir  ticjirts  turn — our  IkmkIh,  witli  piilsoa 
liiirniiig, 
,\ii<l  tin:  wali.s  turn  iii  tln'ir  placos* 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDREN. 


vol 


Turna  the  sky  in  the  high   window  blank 
and  reeling ; 
Turns  the  long  light  that  drops  adown 
the  wall ; 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the 
ceiling ; 
All   are  turning,   all   the  day,  and   we 
with  all. 
And  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  are  droning ; 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
"0  ye  wheels,'  (breaking  out  in  a  mad  moan- 
ing) 
'  Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day !' '' 

Ay!  be  silent!     Let  them  hear  each  other 
breathing 
For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth  ; 
Let  them  touch  each  other's  hands,  in  a  fresh 
wreathing 
Of  their  tender  human  youth  ! 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion 

Is  not  all  the  life  God  fashions  or  reveals ; 
Let  them  prove  their  living  souls  against  the 
notion 
That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  0 
wheels ! 
Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 
Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark ; 
And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is  calling 
sunward, 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

Now  tell   the  poor  young  children,  0  my 
brothers, 
To  look  up  to  him  and  pray ; 
So  the   Blessed  One,  who  blesseth   all   the 
others. 
Will  bless  them  another  day. 
They  answer,  "  Who  is  God  that  He  should 
hear  us. 
While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  is 
stirred  ? 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures 
near  us 
?as8  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not  a 
word; 
And  we  hear  not  (for  the  wheels   in  their 
resounding) 
Strangers  speaking  at  the  door  . 


Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round 
him. 
Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 

"  Two  words,  indeed,  of  praying  we  remember. 

And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 
'Our  Father,'  looking  upward  in  thecuamUer, 

We  say  softly  for  a  charm. 
We  know  no  other  words,  except '  Our  Father," 
And  we  think   that,  in  some  paiLse  of 
angel's  song, 
God  may  pluck  them  with  the  silence  sweet 
to  gather, 
And  hold  both  within   Ilis  right  hand 
which  is  strong. 
'Our  Father!'     If  He  heard  us,  He  would 
surely 
(For  thej   c.iU  Him  good  and  mild) 
Answer,  smiling  down  the  .eteep  world  very 
purely, 
'Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child.' 

"But,  no!"  say  the  children,  weeping  faster, 

"He  is  speechless  as  a  ston.. 
And  they  tell  us,  of  His  image  is  the  master 

Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 
Go  to!"  say  the  children;  "up  in  Heaven, 
Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clo'.:is  are  al 
we  find. 
Do  not  mock  us ;  grief  has  made  us  unbe 
lieving; 
We  look  up  for  God,  but  tears  have  made 
us  blind." 
Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping  and  dis- 
proving, 
0,  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach  ? 
For  God's  possible  is  taught  '.y  his  world's 
loving. 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

And  well  may  the  children  wee]-  before  you  t 

They  are  weary  ere  they  run  ; 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the 
glory 
"UTiich  is  brighter  than  the  sun  : 
They  know  the  grief  of  man,  wi.hout   his 
wisdom ; 
They  sink  in  man's  desnair,  without  his 
calm; 
Are  slaves,  without  the  libertv  ii   Christuom; 


702 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  ANGELS. 


Are  martyrs,  by  the  pang  without  the 
palm; 
Are  worn,  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretrievingly 

The  blessing  of  its  memory  cannot  keep ; 
Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heavenly : 

Let  them  weep  !  let  them  weep ! 

They  look  up,  with  their  pale  and  sunken 
faces. 
And  their  look  is  dread  to  see. 
For  they  mind  you  of  their  angels  in  their 
places, 


With  eyes  turned  on  Deity ; — 
"How  long,"  they  say,  "how  long,  0  cruel 
nation, 
Will  you  stand  to  move  the  world,  on  a 
child's  heart — 
Stifle  down  with  a  mailed  heel  its  palliation. 
And  tread  onward  to  your  throne  amid 
the  mart? 
Our  blood  splashes  upward,  0  gold-heaper, 

And  j'our  purple  shows  your  path ! 

But  the  child's  sob  curses  deeper  in  the  silence, 

Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath!" 


A   WOMAN'S  LOVK 


\N  knows   not   love — such  love  as 

woman  feels. 

him  it  is  a  vast  devouring  flame — 

dstless   fed — in   its  own   strength 

consumed. 

In  woman's   heart  it   enters  step  by 

step,  [ray 


Breathes  forth  a  light,  illumining  her  world. 
Man   loves   not  for   repose ;    he   woos    the 

flower 
To  wear  it  as  the  victor's  trophied  crown ; 
Whilst  woman,  when  she  glories  in  her  love, 
More  like  the  dove,  in  noiseless  constancy, 
Watches  the  nest  of  her  afifection  till 


Concealed,  disowned,  until  its  gentler     'Tis  shed  tipon  the  tomb  of  him  she  loves. 


TUB  MINIS  THY  OF  ANGELS  1 


EDMUND    SPENSER. 


if^fP^^T)  is  there  care  in  heaven?     And  is 
t^lJ^^y.  there  love 

■)^'«  ,,  y'      Jn  heavenly  spirits  to   these  crea- 
(!;'•  tures  base, 

4  That  may  compassion  of  their  evils 

¥  move  ? 

J      There    is ; — else    much    more   wretched 
were  the  <ase 
Of  men  than  beaflt*:   but  0  the  exceeding 

grare 
Of  higlioflt  God  !  that  loves  his  creatures  »»■< 
And  all  his  workes  with  mercy  doth  eu.- 

brace, 
That  blessed  angels  ho  Bcuds  to  and  fro, 


To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  his  wicked 
foe! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave, 
To  come  to  succour  us  that  succour  want; 
How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pinions  cleavn 
The  flitting  skyes,  like  Hying  pursuivant, 
Against  fowlo  fci-ndcs  to  ayd  us  militant! 

They  for  us  fi^^lit,  (hey  watcli,  and  diwly  ward. 
And  tln'ir  brij^iit  RijuadronH  rouu'l  about  us 
plant ; 

And  all  for  love,  and   rmthiiig  for  reward  ; 

O,  why  Hhould  heavenly  God  to  men  hav» 
huch  regard  ! 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 


V03 


THE    LAND    WHERE   JESUS   TOILED. 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  JESUS. 


EDWARD     BICKERSTETH. 


^jjj^ROM  his  lips 

'"te|;J     Truth,  limpid,  without  error,  flowed. 
Disease 
Fled  from  his   touch.     Pain   heard 

him  and  was  not. 
Despair     smiled    in    his    presence. 
Devils  knew, 
.\nd  trembled.     In  the  Omnipotence  of  faith, 
Unintermittent,  indefectible, 


Leaning  upon  his  Father's  might,  he  bent 
All  nature  to  his  will.     The  tempest  sank, 
He  whispering,  into  waveless  calm.  The  bread 
Given  from  his  hands  fed  thousands,  and  to 

spare. 
The  stormy  waters,  as  the  solid  rock 
Were  pavement  for  his  footstep.  Death  itself, 
With  vain  reluctancies  j-ielded  its  prey 
To  the  stern  mandate  of  the  Prince  of  Life. 


A  MOTHERS  LOVE. 


\  MOTHER'S  love  !  oh,  soft  and  low 
.\3  the  tremulous  notes  of  the  ring- 
■>■  dove's  call, 

iW*  Or    the   murmur   of   waters    that 

'•^  gently  flow 

On  the  weary  heart  those  accents  fall! 

A  mother's  love  !  the  sacred  thought 


Unseals  the  hidden  fount  of  tears, 
As  if  the  frozen  waters  caught 
The  purple  light  of  earlier  years. 

.\  mother's  love !  oh,  't  is  the  dew 
Whi(?h  nourisheth  life's  drooping  flowera, 

And  fitteth  them  to  bloom  anew 

'Mid  fairer  scenes — in  brighter  bowers 


704  SHOOTING  PORPOISES. 


SHOOTING  PORPOISES. 


T.  DE  WITT  TALMAGE. 


-LXG,  bang!  went  the  gun  at  the  side  of  the  San  Jacinto,  after  we 
had  been  two  days  out  at  sea  on  the  way  to  Savannah.     We  were 
startled  at  such  a  strange  sound  on  shipboard,  and  asked : 
"  What  are  they  doing  ?  " 

A  few  innocents  of  the  deep,  for  the  purpose  of  breathing  or 
.sport,  had  hfted  themselves  above  the  wave,  and  a  gentleman  found 
amusement  in  tickling  them  with  shot.  As  the  porpoise  rolled  over 
wounded,  and  its  blood  colored  the  wave,  the  gunner  was  congratulated  by 
his  comrades  on  the  execution  made. 

It  may  have  been  natural  dullness  that  kept  us  from  appreciating  the 
grandeur  of  the  deed.  Had  the  porpoise  impeded  the  march  of  the  San 
Jacinto,  I  would  have  said : 

"  Dose  it  with  lead  !  " 

If  there  had  been  a  possibility  that  by  coming  up  to  breathe  it  would 
endanger  our  own  supply  of  air,  I  would  have  said  : 

"  Save  the  passengers  and  kill  the  dolphins  !  " 

If  the  marksman  had  harpooned  a  whale  there  would  have  been  the 
oil  for  use,  or  had  struck  down  a  gull,  in  its  anatomy,  he  might  have  ad- 
vanced science.  If  h3  had  gunpowdered  the  cook  it  might,  in  small  quan- 
tities, have  made  him  animated  ;  or  the  stewardess,  there  v/oiild  have  been 
the  fun  of  seeing  her  jump.  But,  alas  for  the  cruel  disposition  of  the  man 
who  could  shoot  a  porpoise  ! 

There  is  no  need  that  we  go  to  sea  to  find  the  same  style  of  gun- 
ning. 

After  tea  the  parlor  i.^^  full  of  romp.  The  children  aro  jilaying  '•  Ugly 
Mug,"  and  "  Boar,"  and  "  Tag,"  and  "  Yonder  stands  a  lovely  creature." 
Papa  goes  in  among  the  playing  dolphins  with  the  splash  and  dignity  of  a 
San  Jacinto.  He  cries,  *'  Jim,  get  my  slippers  !  "  "  Mary,  roll  up  the 
stand  !  "  "  Jane,  get  me  the  evening  newHpa})cr  !  "  "  So{)liia,  go  to  bed  !  " 
"  Harry,  quit  that  snicker !  "  "  Stop  that  confounded  noise,  all  of  you  !  " 
The  fun  is  over.  The  water  is  quiet.  The  dolphins  have,  turned  their 
last  somersault.  Instead  of  getting  down  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
and  being  as  lively  as  a  "bear,"  ius  any  of  them,  he  goes  to  shooting 
porpoiaai 


SHOOTING  PORPOISES. 


705 


Here  is  a  large  school  of  famous  pretension,  professors  high-salaried,  ap- 
paratus complete,  globes  on  which  you  can  travel  round  the  world  in  five 
minutes,  spectroscopes,  and  Leyden  jars,  and  chromatropes,  and  electric 
batteries.  No  one  disputed  its  influence  or  its  well-earned  fame.  The 
masters  and  misses  that  graduate  come  out  equipped  for  duty.  Long  may 
it  stand  the  adornment  of  the  town.  But  a  widow  whose  sons  were 
killed  in  the  war  opens  a  school  in  her  basement.  She  has  a  small 
group  of  little  children  whose  tuition  is  her  sole  means  of  subsistence. 


SHOOTING  POEPOISES. 


The  high  school  looks  with  sharp  eyes  on  the  rising  up  of  the  low  school 
The  big  institution  has  no  respect  whatever  for  little  institutions.  The 
parents  patronizing  the  widow  must  be  persuaded  that  they  are  wasting 
their  children's  time  in  that  basement.  Women  have  no  right  to  be 
widows  or  have  their  sons  killed  in  the  war.  From  the  windov.'s  of  the 
high  school  the  arrows  are  pointed  at  the  helpless  establishment  in  the 
comer.  "Bang!"  goes  the  ai'tillery  of  scorn  till  one  of  the  widow's 
scholars  has  gone,.  "  Bang!"  go  the  guns  from  the  deck  of  the  great  edu- 
cational craft  till  the  innovating  institution  turns  over  and  disappears. 
Well  done !     Used  it  up  quick  !     Ha  !  ha !  ha  !  Shooting  -porpoises  ! 


706 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 


Grab,  Chokeham  &  Co.  have  a  large  store.  They  sell  more  goods 
than  any  in  town.  They  brag  over  their  income  and  the  size  of  the  glass 
in  their  show-window.  They  have  enough  clerks  on  light  salaries  to  man 
a  small  navy.  Mr.  Needham,  an  honest  man  with  small  capital,  opens  a 
store  in  the  same  business.  One  morning  Mr.  Grab  says  to  his  partner, 
Mr.  Chokeham  :  "  Do  you  know  a  young  chap  has  opened  a  store  down 
on  the  other  end  of  this  block  in  the  same  business  ?" 

"Has,  eh?  We  will  settle  him  very  speedily."  Forthwith  it  is 
understood  that  if  at  the  small  store  a  thing  is  sold  for  fifty  cents,  at  the 
large  store  you  can  get  it  for  forty-five.  That  is  less  than  cost,  but  Grab  & 
Chokeham  are  an  old  house,  and  can  stand  it,  and  Needham  cannot.  Small 
store's  stock  of  goods  is  getting  low,  and  no  money  to  replenish.  Small 
store's  rent  is  due,  and  nothing  with  which  to  pay  it.  One  day  small  store 
is  crowded  with  customers,  but  they  have  come  to  the  sheriff's  sale.  The 
big  fish  has  swallowed  the  little  one.  Grab  &  Chokeham  roll  on  the  floor 
of  counting-room  in  excess  of  merriment.  Needham  goes  home  to  cry  his 
eyes  out.  Big  store  has  put  an  end  to  small  store.  Plenty  of  room  for  both, 
but  the  former  wanted  all  the  sea  to  itself.  No  one  had  any  right  to 
show  his  commercial  head  in  those  waters.  "  Pop  !"  "  Pop  !"  Shooting 
porpoises ! 

Is  it  not  time  that  the  world  stopped  wasting  its  anmiuniticn  ?  If 
you  want  to  shoot,  there  is  the  fox  of  cruel  cunning,  and  the  porcupine  of 
fretfulness,  and  the  vulture  of  filth,  and  the  weasel  of  meanness,  and  the 
bear  of  relio-ious  G-rumbling.  Oh,  for  more  hunters  who  can  "  draw  a  bead  " 
80  as  every  time  to  send  plump  into  the  dust  a  folly  of  sin  !  But  let  alone 
the  innocent  things  of  land  and  deep.  The  world  is  wide  enough  for  us  all. 
Big  newspaper,  have  mercy  on  the  little  Great  merchants,  spare  the  weak. 
Let  the  San  Jacinto  plow  on  its  majestic  way  and  pass  unhurt  the  porpoises. 


THE  DA  Y  IS  DONE. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


'f^Tl^l  I V.  flay  is  done,  ati'l  the  darknoBs         i       And  a  feeling  of  fladncRB  comes  o'er  to*. 


F;tllH  frorn  the  wing  of  Night,  I  That  my  R'>nl  cannot  resist ; 

l'-^')     \*  a  foather  is  waftod  downward 
^'''^         From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 


I  eec  the  liglits  of  the  village 

Qleam  through  the  rain  aad  tbemitit; 


A  f<>eling  of  sadnt'ss  and  longing, 
That  is  not  akin  to  ]iain, 

And  rcHeinhlos  sorrow  only 
As  the  mist  reflcmblea  the  raia< 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 


707 


Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling. 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day  : 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  time. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 
The  restless  pulse  of  care, 

And  come  like  the  benediction 
That  follows  after  prayer. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music. 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor  ; 
And  to-aight  I  long  for  rest. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volunCv 

The  poem  of  thy  choice  ; 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poefc 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart. 

As  shower?  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  mur 
And  the  cares  that  infest  the  Jay 

Shall  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 

"Words  of  Rpnuinfi  oir)qn»>nrc,  spokon, 
Thrill  the  passing  lioiir , 
Written,  they  ioBpiro  the  ages." 


INDEX    OF    PROSE. 


AUTHOR. 


A.  Child's  Dream  of  h  ^««  ,    .   .   .    .   =    .    .  Charles  Dickens -    .   .     .  341 

Advice  to  Young  Mes  . Noah  Porter  ........       .   .  598 

Africa  t<  Hospitality  ...........  Mungo  Park ,.,.,.  66 

A  Glass  of  Cold  Water  .    .    , John  B.  Oough 332 

A  Husband's  Experience  iw  ^WJKING  .    .    .    .Anonymous .    .    .       ,  519 

A  Marin £r's  Description  of  a  Piano  ....  Anonymous 495 

A  PATRior's  Last  Appeal Robert  Emmet 646 

Arctic  Life ,  Elisha  Kent  Kane =   .  652 

Artemus  Ward  at  Shakspeare's  "foMB ....  Charles  F.  Brown    „,.,,.    =    ..  152 

Artemus  Ward  Visits  THE  Shakers  .    ....  Charles  F.  Brown 420 

ATimeof  Ujtexampled  Prosperitv  .    ....   Washington  Irving.    .......    .  448 

Baltus  VAy  Tassel's  Farm  .........  Washington  Irving  .    .    , 49 

'BiAH  Cathcav-t's  Proposal Henry  Ward  Beecher  ........  293 

Book-Buyers John  Buskin 660 

Buck  Fanshaw  's  Funeral S.  C.  Clemens.   .   .   . 671 

Burke  on  the  Death  of  his  Son       Edmund  Burke 231 

Buying  Gape-Seed John  B.  Oough  . 57 

Catching  the  Morning  Train Max  Adder =   .   .   .    .  61 

Caught  in  the  Maelstrom Charles  A.  Wdey  . 412 

Caught  in  the  Quicksand Victor  Hugo  .    .  - 223 

Charity  Dinner,  The Litchfield  Mosely 326 

Children  of  the  Desert  . Arthur  Penrhyn  Stanley 385 

Clock  Work  of  the  Skies Edward  Everett 630 


Coming  of  Thanksgivinr  . 


Charles  Dudley  Warner 148 


TITLES  OF  PROSE. 


CoHSTANTius  AifD  THE  LlOH  ..,.,,...  Oeorge  Oroly  ...,...,,.,.  239 

CoEOSATioK  OF  Anne  Boletn  ...    .   ....  J.  A.  Froude - 194 

Crime  Self-Revealed ,   .   .  Daniel  Webster  ..,....,..,  632 

David,  King  of  Israel Edward  Irving  .    .   , 486 

Death  of  Little  Joe Charles  Dickens 134 

Death  of  Little  Nell Charles  Dickens ,    .   .  256 

Death  of  PRESIDE^-T  Lincoln.   .   , Henry  Ward  Beecher 598 

Dedication  of  Gettysburg  Cemeteey  .   ,  .   .  Abraham  Lincoln .  141 

Defence  of  Pra  Del  Tor  .........  J.  A.  Wylie o   .   .  690 

De  Pint  wid  Ole  Pete Anonymous .......       .....  143 

Diamond  Dust .    ■ Selections ,...,..  521 

Domain  of  Aenheim Edgar  A.  Poe 433 

Dress  Reform ^   .....  T.  De  Witt  Tabnage  ........  550 

Drunkard's  Death,  The  ...,...,..  Charles  Dickens .   ^    ,  .  189 

Dumb- Waiter,  The -, Frederick  Cozzens 279 

European  Guides Mark  Twain ,   .   .   .  211 

Execution  of  Joan  of  Arc  ........  Thomas  De  Quincey •   .  145 

Fingal's  Cave  .  .    ,    .    = Anonymous 648 

Formation  of  Icebergs Elisha  Kent  Kane  ...       627 

Franklin's  Arrival  in  Philadelphia  .    -    .  Benjamin  Franklin 657 

Freedom  of  the  Press  ...>.,..    =    ..  John  Milton 172 

From  Washington's  Inaugural Oeorge  Washington <,    .  603 

Gamin,  The Victor  Hugo 275 

Gathered  Gold  Dust ,    .  Selections 48 

Genius  of  Milton,  The Walter  Savage  Landor  ....    ....  487 

Ghosts  of  Long  Ago  .  .    .    , Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell 99 

Golden  Grains ..,,,....  James  A.  Oarfield 640 

Good-Night,  Papa Anonymous .  118 

Grandmother's  Spectacles T.  DeWitt  Talmage 675 

Grotto  OF  Antiparos Anonymous 636 

Habits  of  Trout William  C.  Prime  . 643 

Hebrew  Race,  The  .        • Benjamin  Disraeli 67 

Hypochondriac,  The Anonymous 403 

Ideas  the  Life  op  a  People  ........  George  W.  Curtis 440 

Images T.  B.  Macaulay .  264 

Immortality • J.  B.  Massillon 207 

Improving  on  Nature John  Buskin 503 

Industry  the  only  Source  of  Wealth  .    .    .  Dr.  Oeorge  Berkeley 180 

Jenkins  Goes  TO  A  Picnio Anonymous 163 

Jeru.salem  by  Moonlight Benjamin  P.  Disraeli 668 

Jimmy  Butler  .\ND  the  Owl Anonymous. 101 

Jim  Smilky's  Fkog .  S.  C.  Clemens 510 

L^ST  HouR.s  OK  WEfWTEK .  Edward  Everett 153 

Life  OF  a  Child  Fairy .    .  Anonymous ,   .   .   .  529 

Light  Brigade  at  P.alaklava,  Tui:;     ...  William  H.  Ru»sdl 58 

Little  EvANGELi.sT,  Thk Harriet  Bccchcr  Stoiue 359 

Littlk  Rid  TIiN Mrs.  Whitney 482 

LoED  Dundreary  AT  BuiuHTox Anonymous 3Q3 


TITLES  OF  PROSE. 


SUBJECT.  AUTHOR.  PAGE. 

Loss  OF  THE  Abctio Henry  Ward  Beecher 683 

Making  Love  in  a  Balloon Litchfield  Moscley 590 

Manifest  Destiny Josh  Billings 457 

Meditation  at  an  Infant's  Tomb James  Hervey 321 

Milton T.  B.  Macaulay 232 

Morality  of  Angling William,  C.  Prime 39 

Morning Edward  Everett 355 

Mother's  Vacant  Chair T.  De  Witt  Talmage 555 

Mountains Mary  Howitt 427 

Mouse-Hunting B.  P.  Shillaber 217 

Mr.  Pickwick  in  a  Dilemma Charles  Dickens 71 

Mr.  Pickwick  in  the  Wrong  Room Charles  Dickens 375 

Mrs.  Caudle  Needs  Spring  Clothing  ....  Douglas  Jerrold 478 

Mrs.  Caudle's  Lecture  on  Shirt  Buttons  .  .  Douglas  Jerrold 499 

Mr.  Stiver's  Horse J.  M.  Bailey 112 

My  Mother's  Bible Anonymous 611 

New  England S.  S-  Prentiss 105 

Nicholas  Nickleby  Leaves  Dotheboy's  Hall  Charles  Dickens 399 

Notch  of  the  White  Mountains,  The  ....  Timothy  Dwight 423 

Old  Coaching  Days John  Poole 579 

Organ  of  Westminster  Abbey Washington  Irving 474 

Our  Debt  to  Irving Charles  Dudley  War?ier . 563 

Pauper's  Funeral,  The Charles  Dickens 365 

Pilgrim  Fathers,  The Edtvard  Everett 524 

Pip's  Fight Charles  Dickens 287 

Pledge  with  Wine Anonymous 166 

Poetry  and  Mystery  of  the  Sea Dr.  Greenwood 175 

Political  Agitation Wendell  Phillips 506 

Praise  of  the  Sea Samuel  Pirchas 75 

Progress  of  Humanity Charles  Sumner 453 

Pulpit  Oratory Daniel  Dougherty 81 

Puritans,  The T.  B.  Macaulay 182 

Rebecca  Describes  the  Siege  to  Ivanhoe  .   .  Sir  Walter  Scott 539 

Recollections  of  my  Christmas  Tree  .    •  .    .  Charles  Dickens 307 

Regulus  to  the  Roman  Senate Anonymous 370 

Rest  of  THE  Just,  The Richard  Baxter 545 

Retribution Abraham  Lincoln 162 

Rome  and  Carthage Victor  Hugo 350 

Ruined  Cottage,  The Mrs.  Letitia  E.  Maclean 96 

Rural  Life  in  England Washington  Irving' 284 

Sam  Weller's  Valentine •  Charles  Dickens 532 

Scene  at  Niagara  Falls Charles  Tarson  ....    • 234 

Schooling  a  Husband Anonymous 313 

Se.\.-Shore  and  Mountains Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 415 

Self-Reliance Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 607 

Selling  a  Coat Anonymous 585 

Sewing  on  a  Button J.  M.  Bailey 169 

Shooting  Porpoises 2.  De  Witt  Talmage 704 


TITLES  OF  PROSE. 


SUBJECT.  AUTHOR.  PAGE. 

SiGHie  FROM  A  Stee?i.e Nathaniel  Hawthorne 470 

Sights  os  the  Sea Washington  Irving 574 

Soft  Sawder  asd  Humau  Natue Thomas  C.  Haliburton  .   = 646 

Sorrow  for  the  Dead Washington  Irving.  .    , 88 

Sunrise  at  Sea William  V.  Kelly 337 

Tacitus  ....  ^-  Babington  Macaulay.  .......    390 

The  Ballot-Box ,   ,   .   .    .  E.  H.  Ghapin 617 

The  Beauty  of  Youth TJieodore  Parker 697 

The  Blind  Preacher William  Wirt 185 

The  DivixiTr  OF  Poetry Percy  Bysshe Shelley 394 

The  Execution  of  Madame  Roland Lamartine 686 

The  Front  and  Side  Doors Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  ........      43 

The  Generous  Soldier  Saved Anonymous 91 

The  Golden  City John  Bunyan 303 

The  Indian  to  the  Settler Edward  Everett 463 

The  Last  Station Anonymous 271 

The  Little  Match  Girl .  Hans  Ohrislian  Andersen 156 

The  Noble  Revenge Anonymous 624 

The  Old  Wife's  Kiss Anonymous 244 

The  Order  of  Nobility Edmund  Burke 227 

The  Power  of  Words Edwin  P.  Whipple 665 

The  Responsive  Chord /.  William  Jones 614 

Thf  Two  Roads Jean  Paul  Richter 109 

lOMBs  of  Westminster Washington  Irving 621 

Too  Late  for  THE  Train Anonymous 125 

Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp .   .  J.  G.  Holland.  ,..••• 201 

Truth John  Ifdton 198 

Uncle  Dan' l's  Apparition  AND  Prayer  .   .   .  Clemens  and  Warner 121 

United  in  Death Anonymous 137 

Useful  Studies Jeremy  Taylor 292 

Voices  of  the  De.\d John  Cumming 298 

Voltaire  and  Wilberforce WiUiavi  B.  Sprague 661 

WAi<HiNOTON,  The  Birthday  OF liufus  Choatc 444 

VV.\flUiHOTON,  Character  of Thomas  Jefferson 55!) 

Wa.shinoton's  Address  TO  Ills  Troops  .   .   .   .  George  Washington 408 

What  I.S  A  Minority? John  B.  Gough 270 

VVii)f)W  Be  Dorr's  Poetry F.  M.  Wliilclier 82 

Winter Douglas  Jerrold 55 

Winter  Sports •  Anonymous 667 

WoiwK  than  Civil  War Senator  Baker 516 

Ya.ikf.e  AND  the  Dutchman's  Doo,  The  .    .    .Anonymous 131 

Zeih  II luoiNs' Confession Harriet  Beccher  Slovte 'i¥ 


INDEX    OF    POEMS. 

(TITLES ) 


SUBJECT. 


ATTTHOB. 


PAOE. 


Abou  Bejt  Adeem Leigh  Hunt 225 

A  FiEST  Sorrow Adelaide  Anne  Proctor 179 

A  Hundred  Years  erom  Now Mary  A.  Ford 187 

Airy  Nothings Shakespeare 325 

A  Kiss  at  the  Door Anonymous 401 

"A  Lion's  Head" G.  Weatherly 181 

American  Aristocracy JoJm  G.  Saxe 71 

American  Flag Joseph  Hodman  Drake 467 

A  Mother's  Love Anonymous 703 

Annabel  Lee Edgar  Allan  Poe 553 

Annie  Laurie Anonymous 385 

Annie  AND  Willie's  Prayer f  Sophia  P.  Snow 395 

Answer  to  the  "Hour  of  Death" Mrs.  Cornwall  Baron  Wilson 675 

A  Portrait Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  .    .    .    .  ■  388 

A  Prayer  for  my  Little  One Edgar  Fawcett 682 

Arsenal  at  Springfield H.  W.  Longfellow 424 

A  Snow-Storm Charles  G.  Eastman 409 

As  Ships  Becalmed Arthur  H.  Clough 422 

A  Sufi  Saint Translated  from  the  Persian 234 


TITLES  OP  POEMS. 


SUBJECT.  AUTHOR.  PAGE. 

A  Tailoe's  Poem  of  Evenxug Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 445 

AuLD  RoBUf  Gray AmK  Barnard 173 

A  Wet  Sheet  axd  a  Flowdcg  Sea Allan  Cunningham 587 

A  WoMAx's  Love Anonymous 702 

A  Womak's  Question Adelaide  A.  Proctor 356 

Baby George  Macdonald 82 

Baggage-Fiend Anonymous 300 

Barbara  Frietchie John  O.  Whittier 317 

Barefoot  Bot John  G.  Whittier 416 

Battle  of  Lookout  Mountain George  H.  Boker 570 

Battle  Song  of  Gustavus  Adolphus Michael  Alternburg 430 

Beautiful  Snow James  W.  Watson 443 

Belfry  Pigeon Nathaniel  Parker  Willis 613 

Bell  of  "  The  Atlantic  " Mrs.  Lydia  Sigoumey 184 

Bells  of  Shandon Father  Prout 573 

Bells Edgar  A.  Poe 5l>3 

Benedicite John  Greenleaf  imttier 350 

Betsy  and  I  are  out Will  M.  Carleton 381 

Betsy  Destroys  the  Paper Will  M.  Carleton 383 

Betty  and  the  Bear Anonymous 171 

Beyond  the  Smiling  and  the  Weeping  ....  Horatius  Bonar •    .  268 

Bill  and  Joe Oliver  Weiidell  Holmes 458 

Bill  Mason's  Bride F.  Bret  Harte 518 

BiNGEN  ON  the  Rhine Caroline -E.  Norton 80 

"Blessed  are  They  that  Mourn" William  Cullen  Bryant 242 

Blind  Boy,  The Colley  Cibber 365 

Blind  Men  and  the  Elephant John  O.  Saxe 398 

Borrioboola  Gha Orrin  Goodrich 525 

Bread  on  the  Waters George  L.  Catlin 612 

Break,  break,  break Alfred  Tennyson 348 

Bridge  of  Sighs Thomas  Hood 354 

Bugle,  The Alfred  Tennyson 436 

Burial  ok  Mo.hes Mrs.  C.  F.  Alexander 289 

Buried  Flower W.  Edmonstone  Aytoune 272 

Buried  To-Day Dinah  Maria  Mulock 243 

Byron's  Latest  Verses Lord  Byron 485 

By  the  Shore  of  the  PavER Chrislophcr  Pearsc  Oranch 517 

Call  me  kot  Dead Translated  from  the  Persian 269 

Cataract  of  Lodore Bobcrt  Southcy 248 

Cato  on  Immortality Jasejih  Addison 391 

Cave  of  Silver Filz  James  0' Brien 362 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade Alfred  Tennyson 59 

Charley's  Opinion  of  the  Baby Anonymous 120 

Charcoal  Man John  Townsend  Trawbridgc 425 

Chemist  to  IIib  Lov) Anonymoxu 469 

CniNEHE  Excelsior From  the  "  Boy  Travelers  " 324 

CHimcii  Window Johann  Wolfgang  Oucthc 358 

OlVIL  War Anonymous 318 


TITLES  OF  POEMS. 


•DBJICT.  AUTHOR.  PAQB 

Clear  the  Way Charles  Mackay 623 

Cleon  and  I .  Charles  Mackay  .    .    .    .    , 597 

Clerical  Wit .  Anonymous 401 

Closing  Scene ....,,,...  T.  Buchanan  Read 556 

Cloud,  The   .    .    .    = .  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley .  437 

Cobbler  Keezab's  Vision '  .   .   .   .  John  0.  Whittier 44 

Cockney,  The John  O.  Saxe 193 

Comet,  The o   ...    .  Thomas  Hood 260 

Coral  Insect Mrs.  Sigoumey 146 

Cradle  Song Josiah  Oilbert  Holland  .......  277 

Creed  of  the  Bells    ............  George  W.  Bungay 309 

Day  Dawn Henry  W.  Longfellow 661 

Day-Dream Alfred  Tennyson 480 

David's  Lament  fob  Absalom ,  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis.  ......  305 

Deacon's  Prayer .  William  0.  Stoddart  .   , 320 

Death-Bed Thomas  Hood 199 

Death  of  the  Flowers William  Cullen  Bryant .......  349 

Death  of  the  Old  Yeae Alfred  Tennyson 316 

Der  Drummer o  Charles  F.  Adams 297 

Destruction  of  Sennacheeib   ........  Lord  Byron 298 

Dies  Ir.^ ,  Thomas  of  Celano 458 

Djinns Victor  Hugo 46S 

Doing  Good  True  Happiness Carlos  Wilcox 219 

Door-Step,  The Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 3G8 

Dorothy  Sullivan ,    .  Anonymous 685 

Dot  Lambs  what  Maby  haf  got Anonymous «  567 

DovE-CoTE Aunt  Effie 232 

Dow's  Flat F.  Bret  Harte 426 

Dreams  and  Realities Phcebe  Gary 485 

Drifting T.  Buchanan  Read 210 

Drummer  Boy Anonymous 6H 

Duncan  Gray  cam'  here  to  Woo Robert  Burns ,   .  33S 

Dust  on  Her  Bible Robert  Lowry 666 

Dying  Alchemist Nathaniel  Parker  Willis 497 

Eagle,  The Alfred  Tennyson 364 

Early  Rising John  G.  Saxe 341 

Ebb  Tide Robert  Southey 41S 

Echoes Thomas  Moore .    ,    .    .  645 

Embarkation  of  the  Exiles Henry  Wadsworth  Longfeltovt  ....  9() 

Engineer's  Story Anonymous .   .  295 

Enoch  Arden  at  the  Window Alfred  Tennyson 252 

Evangeline  on  the  Prairie H  W.  Longfellow 505 

Evening  Brings  us  Home Anonymous 502 

Excelsior Henry  W.  Longfellow 322 

Extract  from  Gbat's  Elegy Thomas  Gray 203 

Fairies William  Arlington 515 

Fate F.  Bret  Harte 251 

"  Father,  TAKE  MY  Hasd" He>iry  N.  CM 33t 


TITLES  OF  POEMS. 


lUBJECT.  AUTHOR.  JAQI. 

Faithless  Nelly  Gbay  ,    .   .   c >  Thomas  Hood .  405 

Farm-Yaed  Song ,    .    .  John  Townsend  Trowbridge 352 

Farmer  and  the  Counselloe Anoni/mous 100 

Father  Time's  Changeling Anoni/mous 324 

Fire-Bell's  Story,  The  ...       Oeoj-ge  L.  Catlin  ...,   =    ...,.  554 

Fire-Fiend C.  Z).  Oardette <   .  160 

First  Party »    .    .    .  Josephine  Pollard .  414 

First  Snow-Fall James  R.  Lowell ,    .  137 

Fisher's  Cottage Henry  Heine ,  253 

Florence  Vane ■ Philip  P.  Cooke 281 

For  Charlies  Sake John  W.  Palmer  ....,..,..  641 

Forest  Hymn William  Oullen  Bryant .......  37 

Frenchman  and  the  Rats Anonymous 335 

Friend  OF  Humanity  AND  THE  Kniff  Jrinder  .  (reor^e  CSxjinuijr 228 

Funeral  of  Lincoln Richard  Henry  Stoddard 600 

Gems  from  Shakespeare  ....,...,.  Shakespeare 634 

German  Trust  Song Lampertius 589 

Gladiator ,  J.  A.  Jones  ............  565 

God From  the  Russian  of  Derzhaven    .    .    .  537 

GrOD  IN  the  Seas  .    .        William  Oullen  Bryant ,  694 

God's  Acre Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  ....  498 

Go,  Feel  what  I  have  Felt Anonymous .  319 

Goin'  Home  To-Day Will.  M.  Carleton 265 

GoNii  with  a  Handsomer  Man Will.  M.  Carlton 139 

Gracious  Answer,  The. Henry  N.  Cobb 334 

Gradatim ' John  O.  Holland 558 

Gouty  Merchant  and  the  Stranger Horace  Smith 216 

Hans  and  Fritz Charles  F.  Adams 311 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  lark Shakespeare 319 

He  Knows Mary  O.  Brainard ,    .    .   .  577 

Hermit -        -    .    .  James  Beattie ,  595 

Hero  of  the  Commune Margaret  J.  Preston 278 

Hiawatha's  Journev  .       Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  ....  342 

Hliwatha's  Return Henry  Wadsivorth  Longfellow  ....  345 

Hiawatha's  Wooing Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  ....  344 

Hide  anp  Seek     .    .           .    .  Julia  Qoddard 454 

Highland  Mary •  Robert  Burns 262 

Homes  of  England Felicia  D.  Hemam 64 

Homk,  Sweet  Home John  Hotvard  Payne 628 

Hour  of  Death ^^rs.  F.  Hanans 674 

Housekeeper's  SolilckiUT Mrs.  F.  D.  Oage 78 

How'.s  MY  BoT? Sydney  Dobell -    .  353 

Htmntothp:  Flowers ■    .  Horace  Smith 255 

I  Love  thk  Morning  Suhshine Robert  Lnwry 276 

I'm  Growing  Old J'>hn  O.  Saxe 4;?8 

Ihi*ian  Death  Song    ....           Philip  Frencau •'■>18 

IsirMATioiTH  or  Immortality William  Wordsworth 206 

i  Would  .vut  Live  Alway    .    .        ...       .    •  Wdluim  A.  Muhlenberg 353 


TITLES  OF  POEMS. 


SUBJECT.  AUTHOR.  fAOl, 

I  Remembee,  I  Remember 7%omas  Hood 273 

I  See  Thee  Still Charles  Sprague 144 

Jewish  Hymn  in  Jerusalem Henry  Hart  Milman 502 

Jim F.  Bret  Harte 339 

Joe Alice  Bobbins 514 

John  Ander.son,  Mr  Jo Eobert  Burns 466 

John  and  Tibbie  Davison's  Dispute Eobert  Leighton 572 

John  Jankin's  Sermon Anonymous .    .  543 

John  Maynard H.  Alger,  Jr 406 

Jolly  Old  Pedaqogue George  Arnold 258 

Kate  Ketchem Fhcebe  Cary 461 

King  of  Denmark's  Ride Caroline  E.  Norton 379 

Kissing  her  Hair Algernon  Charles  Swinburne     ....  52 

Kit  Carson's  Ride Joaquin  Miller 472 

Korner's  Sword  Song Charles  Tlieodore  Korner 312 

Labor  is  Worship , Frances  S.  Osgood 610 

Lady  Clare Alfred  Tennyson ,    .    .    .    .  631 

Lament  of  the  Irish  EMiGEAirr Lady  Dufferin 62 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrims Felicia  Hemans 205 

Land  0'  the  Leal Lady  Carolina  Nairne      421 

Last  Leaf Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 542 

Laugh  of  a  Child , Anonymous 549 

Launching  of  the  Ship  , Henry  W.  Longfellow 389 

Law James  Beattie ,    .    .    .    .  649 

Law  op  Death , John  Hay 547 

Learning  to  Pray Afary  M.  Dodge 331 

Left  alone  at  Eighty .  Alice  Bobbins 372 

Legend  of  Bregenz Adelaide  Anne  Proctor 52 

Life LAnes  selected  from  thirty-eight  authors  496 

Life Henry  King 642 

Life  From  Death Horatius  Bonar 170 

Light-House Thomas  Moore 513 

Lines  on  a  Skeleton Anonymous ,,..,.  417 

Lion's  Ride Ferdinand  Freiligrath 455 

Little  and  Great Charles  Mackay 441 

Little  Conqueror Charles  F.  Adams 165 

Little  Margery Mrs  Sallie  J.  White 330 

London  Churches Bichard  Monckton  Mines 237 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter Thomas  Campbell 551 

Lost  Doll C  Kingslcy 341 

Love  Lightens  Labor Anonymous 1S2 

Love  me  Little,  Love  me  Long Anonymous 191 

Mabel  Martin John  G.  Whittier 488 

Maidenhood Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  ....  246 

Mary  Garvin John  G.  Whittier 560 

Maud  Muller John  G.  Whittier 459 

Measuring  the  Baby Emma  Alice  Brown 520 

Meeting  of  the  Ships Felicia  Hemans 230 


TITLES  OF  POEMS. 


SUBJECT.  AtJTHOB.  P^QB 

Meeting  of  the  Watebs ,    .  Thomas  Moore  ....   ......   .  484 

Mercy Shakespeare 379 

Meeey  Labk Charles  Kingsley 463 

Milkmaid Jeffreys  Taylor 199 

MiKi'ET,  The Mrs.  Mary  M.  Dodge 340 

MisEE,  The. Oeorge  W.  Cutter 226 

Miss  Edith  Helps  Thi>'gs  Along F.  Bret  Harte 254 

Model  Church John  H.  Yates 544 

Moravian  Requiem Harriet  B.  MKeever 225 

Mother  in  the  Snow-Stokm     ........  Seba  Smith 513 

Motherhood Anonymous 229 

Mountain  and  Squirrel Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 590 

Mrs.  Lofty  and  I Anonymous 596 

Murdered  Traveler William  Cullen  Bryant 402 

My  Childhood  Home B.  P.  Shillaber 196 

My  Country James  Montgomery 179 

My  Creed Alice  Cary 266 

My  Mother's  Bible Oeo.  P.  Morris 523 

My  Playmate John  G    Whittier 582 

Mystery  of  Life  in  Christ Mrs  E.  Prentiss 233 

Mystic  Weaver Anonymous 587 

Nation's  Dead,  The    ............  Anonymous 266 

Nell Robert  Buchaiian 393 

New  Church  Orgak  . Will.  M.  Carleton    .   .   .   , 588 

New  Year's  Eve Alfred  Tennyson 387 

Niagara lyydia  Huntley  Sigoumey  ......  647 

Night James  Montgomery 301 

No Thomas  Hood 506 

Nobody's  Child Phila  H.  Case 302 

Nocturnal  Sketch Tliomas  Hood  ...........  609 

"  No  more  Sea  " William  H.  Henderson 644 

No  Sects  in  Heaven Anonymous 500 

Not  on  the  Battle-Field John  I^erpont 531 

"  Now  I  Lay  me  Down  to  Sleep  " Anonymous 332 

Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Shepherd Sir  Walter  Raleigh  . 381 

Old Ralph  Hoyt 431 

Old  Arm-Chaie Eliza  Cook. 285 

Old  Oaken  Bucket Samuel  Woodworth 549 

Old  School  Punishment Anonymous 209 

Old  Times  and  New A.  C  Spoonrr 429 

Old  Ways  and  thk  New John  H.  Yates 104 

Orient,  The Lord  Byron 224 

Out  of  the  Old  HonflE,  Nancy Will.  M.  Carleton 697 

Our  Lambs Anonymoris 629 

OfTB  Skater  Belle Anonymous 597 

OvFB  the  Hill  to  the  Poor -House Will.  M.  Onrlrton 679 

OvKR  TIIK  Hili-S  from  the  PoOB-HoUBE  .    .    .    .May  Mignonette, 681 

Over  THE  Riveb Nancy  A.  W.  Priest 142 


TITLES  OF  POEMS. 


Owl,  The Barry  Cornwall 422 

Paddy's  Excelsior Anonymous 323 

Palace  o'  the  King William  Mitchell 286 

Papa's  Letter Anonymous 168 

Parting  Lovers   . Translated  from  the  Chinete 356 

Patient  Stork Lord  Thurlow 450 

Patriotism Sir  Walter  Scott 233 

Pat's  Criticism Cliarles  F.  Adams 154 

Pauper's  Death-Bed C.  B.  Southey 216 

Paying  her  Way Anonymous 452 

Pelican,  The James  Montgomery 446 

"Penny  YE  Meant  to  Gie" Anonymous 581 

Per  Pacem  ad  Lucem Adelaide  Anne  Proctor  .......  553 

Pleasure  Boat,  The Richard  Henry  Dana (JO 

Poet's  Reward John  G.  Whittier 402 

Poet's  Song  to  his  Wife% Barry  Cornwall 68 

Poor  Indian,  The   ...                   Anonymous 227 

Poor  Little  Joe ...  P.  Arhuright 358 

Prayers  of  Children Anonymous 329 

Psalm  op  Life Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  ....  241 

Putting  up  o'  the  Stove Anonymous 290 

Puzzled  Dutchman Charles  F.  Adams 151 

Quaker  Widow Bayard  Taylor 110 

Quarrel  of  Brutus  and  Cassius Shahpeare 476 

Quilting,  The Anne  Bache 56 

Rainy  Day „    .        .    ■  Henry  Wad.%worth  Longfellow  ....  88 

Ramblings  in  Greece Rossiler  W.  Raymond 696 

R.ANGER,  The Tohn  G.  Whittier 507 

Raven,  The Edgar  A.  Foe 158 

Reaper,  The William  Wordsworth 36& 

Resignation Henry  Wadsworth  Longfelloxo  ....  251 

Reveille T.  B.  Hart 618 

Ring  the  Bell  Softly Dexter  Smith 282 

River  Path John  G.  Wliittier 566 

River  Time,  The Benjamin  F.  Taylor 64 

Robert  of  Lincoln Wm.  Cullen  Bryant 387 

Rock  me  to  Sleep Elizabeth  Akers 274 

Roll  on.  Thou  Sun Anonymous 234 

Ruined  Merchant Cora  M.  Eager 197 

Ruth Thomas  Hood 36T 

Sabbath,  The James  Grahame 610 

Sands  o'  Dee Charles  Kingsley 392 

Scatter  the  Gems  of  the  Beautiful Anonymous 195 

Searching  fob  the  Slain Anonymous 602 

Sea,  The Lord  Byron 262 

Sea,  The Barry  Cornwall 362 

Servant  of  God,  well  done Jam^  Montgomery 364 

57 


TITLES  OF  POEMS. 


SUBJECT.                                                   AUTHOR.                                     page- 
Seven  Times  Two Jean  Ingelow 619 

Shall  we  know  each  other  there  ?  .    .    .    .  Anonymous 69 

Shibboleth E.  A.  J.  Cleveland 583 

Sheridas's  Ride Thomas  Buchanan  Head  ......    536 

Skipper  Iresok's  Ride John  G.  WJiittier 79 

Sleep  of  the  Brave irdliam  Collins 605 

Sleighing  Sosg O.  W.  Pettee    .   ., 338 

Snow-Flakes Harriet  B.  M'Keever ,243 

Sn ow-Storsi,  The Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 63 

Socrates  Snooks Anonymous 124 

Soldier's  Dream Thomas  Camphell 578 

Soldier's  Pardon James  Smith .    236 

Sometime ^l-^«'*3/  ^^^^y  'S'mi^A 373 

Song  for  Hearth  and  Home William  E.  Duryea 548 

Song  of  Birds Thomas  Heywood 374 

Song  of  Marion's  Men Wm.  Cullen  Bryant 133 

Song  of  Saratoga •    •    •  John  O.  Saxe 95 

Song  of  Spring • Edward  Youl 98 

Song  of  the  Brook Alfred  Tennyson 222 

Song  of  the  Decanter Anonymous 87 

Song  of  the  Forge Anoixymous 304 

Song  of  the  Shirt Thomas  Hood 282 

Song  of  the  Stormy  Petrel Anoiiymous 440 

Sonnet  from  the  Portuguese Elizabeth  B.  Browning 370 

SocL  OF  Eloquence Johann  W.  Goethe 97 

Stabvt  M\ter      Translation  of  Dr.  Abraham  Coles  .    .    504 

Star  of  Bethlehem -HenrT/  Kirk  White 469 

Star  Spangled  Banner Francis  Scott  Key -466 

St.  John  the  Aged Anomjmous 675 

Stormy  Petrel,  The ^arry  Cormvall 439 

Sunrise  in  the  Valley  of  Chamounix  ....  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge   ......    663 

Thanatopsis William  Cullen  Bryant 214 

The  American  Boy Caroline  Gilman 268 

Thp:  Angel's  Story Adelaide  A.  Proctor 637 

TuK  Angel's  Whisper Samuel  Lover 277 

The  Angler •    '  J^^^  Chalkhill 205 

The  Bald-headed  Tyrant May  E.  VanDyke 687 

TheBridk Sir  John  Suckling 642 

The  Bridge  .    .  Henry  Wadsworth  LongfeUow  ....      51 

The  Blood  Horse -Parn/  Cornwall 42 

Toe  Brook  Side Richard  Moncklon  Milnes 247 

The  Celestial  Country Bernard  De  Morlaix 650 

The  Chamber  OVER  the  Gate H.  W.  Longfellow 693 

The  Chanoelino ^o'l"  ^-  Whiiiier 654 

The  Children's  Cninujii Proyn  the  German  of  J'<nil  Gerol  .   .    .    692 

The  Children's  Hour J^-  W.  Longfellow 656 

Thb  Coral  Grove •^a""'«  ^  Percival 678 


TITLES  OF  POEMS. 


SUBJECT.  AUTHOR.  "^XQE. 

The  Countess John  G.  WJiitlkr CO? 

The  Crowded  Streets William  Cullen  Bryant r>ii7 

The  Cry  of  the  Children Elizabeth  Barrett  Browninf/ 6'J9 

The  Day  is  Done R.  W.  Longfellow 706 

The  Eggs  and  the  Horses Anonymous 694 

The  Gamuler's  Wife Reynell  Coates 688 

The  Grasshopper  King From  the  Greek  of  Anacreon 42 

The  Home  of  Peace Tliomas  Moore .3.37 

The  Lost  Chitrch Johann  Ludwiy   Wiland 622 

The  Lost  Love William  Wordsworth 670 

The  Lull  of  Eternity Francis  Ridley  Eavergal fi2tj 

The  Maple  Tree Anonymous 699 

The  Ministry  of  Angels Edmund  Spenser 702 

The  Ministry  of  Jesus Edward  Bickersteth 703 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs Hejiry  WadsworthLongfeUovo  ....  40 

The  Old  Village  Choir Benjamin  F.  Taylor 677 

The  One-hoss  Shay Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 69 

There  is  no  Death Lord  Lytton 4,51 

The  Rose James  R.  Lowell 6ej9 

The  Sun  is  Warm,  the  Sky  is  Cleae Percy  Bysshe  Shelley GO! 

The  Tempest James  T.  Fields 208 

The  Three  Sons John  Moultrie 523 

The  Tiger William  Blake 357 

The  True  Temple Anonymous 6Lf' 

The  Unbolted  Door Edward  Garrett 120 

The  Vagabonds J.  T.  Troivbridge 130 

The  Water-Mill D.  C.  M'aaium 200 

The  Whistle Robert  Story 283 

Through  Trials Rosengarten 658 

Tim  Twinkleton's  Twins diaries  A.  Bell 106 

To  A  Friend  in  Affliction William  Munford 689 

To  a  Water   Fowl W.  C.  Bryant 526 

To  Night Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 242 

To  the  Silent  RivEii Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 220 

Trust John  G.  Whittier 230 

Twenty  Years  Ago Anonymous 201 

Two  Little  Kitted? Anonymous 229 

Two  Views Anonymous 625 

Under  the  Violets Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 2';7 

Union  and  Liberty Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 273 

Vaudois  Teacher John  G.  Whittier 405 

Vision  of  Monk  Gabriel Eleanor  C.  Donnelly 659 

Voices  at  the  Throne T.  Westwood 527 

Waiting  by  the  Gate William  Cullen  Bryant 77 

What  Constitutes  a  State  ?  • Sir  William  Jones 3ii7 

When Susan  Coolidge 450 

When  Sparrows  Build Jean  Ingclow 471 


TITLES  OF  POEMS. 


STTBJECT.  AUTHOR.  PAaB, 

Wheee  Shall  THE  Baby's  DiiiPLE  BE?  .    .    .   .  J.  G.  Holland 689 

Whistles-g  in  Heaven W.  S.  Ralph 116 

Wht/ Ethel  Lynn 655 

Why  should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be  Proud  '.' .  William  Knox 411 

Widow  Bedott  to  Elder  Sniffles F.  M.  Whitcher 548 

Widow  Maloxe Charles  Jaines  Lever 375 

Wind  and  PlAin Richard  H.  Stoddard 414 

Winter  Song Ludwig  Holty 596 

Wounded William  E.  Miller 188 

Yawcob  Strauss Charles  F.  Adams 41$ 

You  jf UT  Tso  Flowers  on  ijy  Papa's  Grave  .   .  C-  E.  L.  Holmes  .  .  .  .  o 19J 


INDEX    OF    POEMS 

(FIRST  LINES) 


PAGE. 

A.  BABT  was  sleeping 277 

Abou    Ben  Adhem — may  his  tribe  .    .  225 

A  care-worn  widow  sat  alone 129 

A  chieftain  to  the  highlands  bound   .    .  551 

A  cottage  home  with  sloping  lawn  .  .    .  197 

A  counsel  in  the  "Common  Pleas  "    .    .  100 

Across  the  level  table-land 488 

A  Frenchman  once 335 

A  good  wife  rose  from  her  bed  one  morn  182 

A  little  child 527 

All  is  finished  and  at  length 389 

Alone,  in  the  dreary,  pitiless  street  .    .  302 

Along  the  frozen  lake  she  comes    .    .    .  597 

A  milkmaid  who  poised  a  full  pail  .    .  199 

Among  professors  of  astronomy  ....  260 

A  mother's  love  !     Oh,  soft  and  low  .    .  703 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven  ? 702 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets    ...  63 

An  old  farm  home  with  meadows  wide  625 

An  old  man  sat  by  a  fireless  hearth  .    .  226 

A  parson  who  a  missionary  had  been    .  401 


A  picture  memory  brings  to  me  ....  230 

Arise !  this  day  shall  shine 179 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  djnng  .   .  86 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay  .   .    .  422 

A  stranger  preached  last  Sunday  .    .    .  525 

As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is 342 

At  early  dawn  I  marked  them  in  the  sky  446 

At  heaven  approached  a  Sufi  Saint    .    .  281 

A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we  .    .  43^ 

A  traveler  througii  a  dusty  road   .    .   .  441 

At  the  close  of  the  day  when  the  .    .    .  695 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water  ....  .'^44 

At  twilight  hour,  when  memory's  power  ;i25 

Awake  my  soul '  Not  only  passive    .    .  663 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea   ....  587 

A  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea  ....  661 

Backward,  turn   backward,  0  Time  .  274 

Beautiful  snow  !  beautiful  snow !  .        .  243 

Beautiful  was  the    night 505 

Before  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee 356 


FIRST  LINES  OF  POEMS. 


PAGE. 

Behold  her  single  in  the  fieid 368 

Behold  this  ruin  !  'tis  a  skull 417 

Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold 405 

Beside  the  massive  gateway  built  up    .  77 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight  .    .  656 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping..  .  268 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man 416 

Break,  break,  break 348 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead  233 

Buried  to-day 243 

But  Enoch  yearned  to  see  her  face  again  252 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain    .    .    .  •    .  289 

Bv  the  wayside  on  a  mossy  stone  ...  431 

Captain  Graham,  the  men  were  sayin'  616 

Calmly  see  the  mystic  weaver 587 

Clang,  clang  I  the  massive  anvils  rang  .  304 

Cleon  hath  a  million  acres — not  a  one  597 

Come,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I  .    .  458 

Come  hoist  the  sail,  the  fast  let  go  .  .    .  60 

Dark  is  the  night,  and  fitful 548 

Dark  is  the  night !  How  dark  !  .    .    .    .  688 
Day  hath  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around  445 

Day  of  wrath  I  that  day  of  burning  .    .  456 

Day-stars!  that  ope  your  eyes  at  morn  255 

I)eep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove  .    .    .  678 

Did  you  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone  .    .  375 

Dong,  dong  ! — the  bells  rang  out  .    .    .  554 

Down  on  the  stream  they  flying  go  .    .  583 

Dow's  Flat,  That's  its  name 426 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping   .    .    .  699 

Draw  up  the  papers,  lawyer 381 

.Duncan  Gray  cam'  here  to  woo  ....  336 

EvE5  IS  come  ;  and  from  the  dark  Park,  609 

Fear  not,  0  little  flock  !    the  foe  ...  430 

First  time  he  kissed  me 370 

Flag  of  the  lieroes  who  left  us  their  glory  273 

Flow  on  forever,  in  ihy  glorious  robe    .  647 

For  tliee,  0  dear,  dear  cr.untry  ....  650 

For  the  fairest  riiaid  in  Hami>ton   .    .    .  651 

Four  hundred  thousand  m<'n 266 

From  the  heart  of  Waumbek  Melhua    .  560 

From  hifl  lips 703 

Full  knee  deep  lien  the  winter  snow  .    .  31R 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  acrene  .  203 


paqb. 

Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed 42 

Garcon  ! — you,  you 278 

Girt  round  with  rugged  mountains  .    .  52 

"  Give  me  but  two  brigades  !"    ....  570 

God  bless  my  little  one.     How  fair  .    .  682 

God  bless  the  man  wlio  first  invented  341 

God  of  the  thunder 502 

God's  love  and  peace  be  with  thee .  .    .  350 

Go,  feel  what  I  have  felt 319 

Golden  head  so  lowly  bending   ....  332 

Grandma  told  me  all  about  it 340 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league 59 

Half  an  hour  till  train-time,  sir  ...    .  518 

Hans  and  Fritz  were  two  Deutschers  311 

Hark,  hark !  the  lark 319 

Hark!  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands  .  618 

Happy  insect,  what  can  be 42 

Have  you  heard  of  the  . . .  one-hoss  shay  ?  69 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells  ....  593 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound  558 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands  .  364 

Here's  a  big  wasliing  to  be  done    ...  78 
Her  hands  are  cold ;  her  face  is  white  .   .  267 

He  who  dies  at  Azim  sends 269 

Hide  and  seek !  Two  children  at  play  .  454 

Hold  the  lantern  aside,  and   shudder  602 

Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea ! 353 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  .  549 

How  does  the  water  come  down  ....  248 

How  kind  Pieuben  Esmoml  is  growing.  655 

How  many  summers,  love? 68 

How  shall  we  learn  to  sway  the  minds  97 

How  sleep  the  brave  who 605 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  610 

How   sweet  the  chime  of  the  Sabbath  309 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes  .    .  645 


I  BRING  fresh  showers 437 

I  come  from  haunta  of  coot  and  hern  222 

I  do  not  ask,  O  Lord  !  that  life  may  be  553 

Iliaf  von  funny  Iceille  [loy 418 

I  liavi^  a  son,.a  litth;  son 528 

I  have  fancied    sonK^timos  the    Bethel  .  677 

I  hold  tliat  Christian  grace  aliounds  .    .  266 

I  know  by  the  smoke 337 

I  know  not  what  will  befall  me  !   .    .    .  577 

If  1  wore  told  that  I  must  die    ....  450 


FIRST  LINES  OF  POEMS. 


PAGE. 

If  that  the  world  anil  love  were  young  .  381 

I  know  in  grief  like  yours B89 

I  know  him  by  his  falcon  eyii 227 

I  like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase    ...  498 

I  love  it,  I  love  it,  the  laugh  of  a  child .  519 

I  love  it,  I  love  it,  and  who  shall  dare  .  285 

I  love  thee,  Mary,  and  thou  lovest  me  .  469 

I  love  tiie  morning  sunshine 276 

I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly      ....  281 

I  loved  them  so 629 

I'm  a  proken-hearted  Deutscher  ....  151 

I  met  her  where  folly  was  queen  of  the  666 

I'm  growing  very  old.    This  weary  head  575 

I'm  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary 62 

I'm  wearin'  awa',  Jean 421 

In  a  pioneer's  cabin  out  West  ....  171 

In  Broad  Street  buildings   .    .  •    .    •  .  216 

In  his  tower  sat  the  poet 669 

In  P;Bstum's  ancient  fanes  I  stood  .    .    .  696 

In  the  deepest  dearth  of  midnight  .    .    .  160 

[n  the  hollow  tree,  in  the  old  gray  tower  422 

I  n  the  quiet  nursery  chambers    ....  329 

In  the  regular  evening  meeting  .    .    .    .  320 

In  the  silence  of  mj^  chamber 272 

In  yon  dense  wood  full  oft  a  bell  .    .    .  622 

I  once  had  a  sweet  little  doll,  dear    .    .  341 

I  remember,  I  remember 273 

I  rock'd  her  in  the  cradle 144 

I  saw  him  once  before 542 

Is  it  so  far  from  thee 693 

I  stood  one  Sunday  morning 237 

I  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight  ...  51 

It  must  be  so — Plato 391 

It's  a  bonnie,  bonnie  warl' 286 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow   .    .    .  631 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago    .    .  553 

It  was  in  my  foreign  travel 193 

It  was  six  men  of  Indostan 398 

I'v'    biouglit  back  the   paper,  lawyer  383 

I've  jii-t  '■'  'ine  in  from  the  meadow,  wife  104 

I've  w.ui'l'Med  to  the  village,  Tom  .    .    .  261 

I've  worked  in  the  field  all  day  ....  139 

I  walk  along  the    crowded  streets    .    .  233 

1  wandered  by  the  brook  side 247 

1  was  sitting  in  my  study 168 

I  will  paint  her  as  I  see  her 388 

I  would  not  live  alway ;  I  ask  not  to  stay  353 

Jingle,  jingle,  clear  the  way 338 


John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John  .  .  . 
John  Davison  and  Tibbie,  his  wife 
John  Dobbins  was  so  captivated  .  . 
Just  as  God  leads  me  I  would  go  . 

Kate  Ketchem,  on  a  winter's  nii-.. 
Kissing  her  hair,  I  sat  against  her  leet 
Kneeling  fair  in  the  twilight  gray 
Kneeling,  white-robed,  sleepy  eyes 
Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress 


Laud  the  first  spring  daisies  .    . 
Laws,  as  we  read  in  ancient  sages 
Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall  .  . 

Let  me  lie  down 

Let  me  move  slowly  through  the  street 
Like  the  falling  of  a  star    .    .    . 
Look  up,  my  young  American    . 
Love  me  little,  love  me  long !  .  . 


Maiden  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes 
Man  knows  not  love — such  love  as 
Many  a  voice  has  echoed  the  cry  . 
Mary  haf  got  a  leetle  lambs  already 
Maud  MuUer,  on  a  summer's  day  . 
Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie  .    .    . 
Men  of  thought  be  up  and  stirring 
Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed 
Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we 
Miss  Annabel  McCarty    .    .    . 
Mister  Socrates  Snooks  .    .    . 
"  Mister,"  the  little  fellow  said 
Mrs.  Lofty  keeps  a  carriage    . 

i  Muzzer's  bought  a  baby  .    .    . 

j  My  business  on  the  jury's  done 

!  My  days  pass  pleasantly  away 
My  neighbor's  house  is  not  so  hig 
My  sister  '11  be  down  in  a  minute 

:  My  soul  to-day 


Needy  knife-grinder!  .... 
Night  is  the  time  for  rest     .    . 
No  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill 
No,  children,  my  trips  are  over 

No  sun — no  moon  ! 

Not  where  high  towers  rear    . 


0  DEEM  not  they  are  blest  alone 
Of  all  the  notable  things  on  earth 


PAGE. 

.  460 

.  572 

.  694 

.  689 

.  461 

.  52 

.  331 

.  330 

.  224 

.  98 
679 
.  674 
.  188 
567 
642 
268 
191 


248 
702 
626 
567 
459 
385 
623 
387 
628 
414 
124 
612 
596 
120 
265 
438 
229 
254 
210 

223 
301 
566 
295 
506 
615 

242 
71 


FIRST  LINES  OF  POEMS. 


PAGE. 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time  .  79 

Oh  1  a  ^vedding  ring's  pretty  to  wear  .  .  685 

Oh  1  a  wonderful  stream  is  the  river   .  64 

Oh,  lady  fair,  these  silks  of  mine    .    .    .  405 

Oh!  listen  to  the  water-mill 200 

Oh  !  say,  can  you  see 466 

Oh !  the  quietest  home  on  earth  had  I  .  687 

Oh  !  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal .  .  411 

Old  master  Brown  brought  his  ferule  .  209 

0,  lonely,  exiled  one 644 

0  Mary  go  and  call  the  cattle  home  .    .  392 

0  melancholy  bird,  the  long,  long  day  .  450 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary 158 

One  day  in  summer's  glow 324 

One  more  unfortunate 354 

0  no,  no — let  me  lie 531 

On  the  cross-beam  under  the  old  South  613 

0  reverend  sir,  I  do  declare 548 

0  Rosamond,  thou  fair  and  good   .    .    .  485 

0  say,  what  is  that  thing  called  light   .  365 

0  the  gallant  fisher's  life 205 

0  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow  ....  443 

0  Thou  Eternal  One  I   whose  presence  537 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried .  .    .  133 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  209 

Our  bugles  sang  truce 578 

Our  revels  now  are  ended 325 

Out  of  the  old  house,  Nancy 697 

Over  the  cradle  the  mother  hung  .    .    .  689 

Over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes  ....  352 

Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house  ....  679 

Over  the  hills  to  the  poor-house  ....  681 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me  .    .    .  142 

Over  the  wooded  northern  ridge.  .    .    .  605 

Pack  cloudH,  away !  and  welcome,  day !  374 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us  619 

Peace!  let  the  long  proce.ssion  come  .    .  600 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  liomeward  .  345 

Pray  what  do  they  do  at  the  Springs?  .  95 

Prop  yer  eyes  wide  open,  Joey  ....  358 

Rattle  tlie  window,  winds Ill 

Rifleman,  slioot  mo  a  fancy  shot     .    .    .  318 

Ring  out,  wild  bolK  to  the  wild  Hky  .  .  387 

River  that  in  BJlcnnc  winde.st 220 

Robert  Rawlin  !     Frosts  wore  falling    .  507 

Roll  on,  thou  Sun,  forever  roll    ....  234 

Hua?  Now  you  bet  you 472 


PAOE 

Sat,  there !  P'r'aps 339 

Scatter  the  gems  of  the  beautiful    .    .    .  195 

Seek  me  the  cave  of  silver  ....  362 

Servant  of  God,  well  done 254 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways  .  670 

She  says,  "  the  cock  crows, — hark  !"  .    .  356 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn  .    .  367 

Slowly  thy  flowing  tide 418 

Some  one  has  gone 282 

Sometime,  when  all  life's  lessons  .    .    .  373 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street.  40 

Stood  the  afflicted  mother  weeping    .    .  504 

Summer  joys  are  over 596 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave  .  .  242 

Sword  at  my  left  side  gleaming  ....  312 

Talking  of  sects  till  late  one  eve  .    .   .  500 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers  .       .  241 

Thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown  .  .    .  402 

That  nightee  teem  he  come  chop-chop  .  324 

That  you  have  wronged  me 476 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  296 

The  beaver  cut  his  timber 44 

The  bells  of  the  church  are  ringing  .    .  692 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high  .    .    .  205 

The  cold  wind  swept 513 

The  conference  meeting  through  at  last  368 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  .  88 

The  day  is  done 706 

The  day  is  set,  the  ladies;  met 56 

Thee  finds  me  in  the  garden,  Hannah  .  110 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples  .    .  37 

The  lark  sings  for  joy 440 

The  lion  is  the  desert's  king  ...    .    •  455 

The  maid,  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale!  .    .  642 

The  melancholy  days  have  como  .    .    .  290 

The  melancholy  days  are  come  ....  349 

The  merry,  merry   lark  was  up  .  .    .    .  463 

The  minster  window,  richly  glowing     .  358 

The  minister  says  last  night,  says  he    .  543 

The  mountain  and  the  squirrel   ....  590 

Then  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult  90 

The  night  wind  with  a  desolate  moan  497 

The  night  is  late,  the  house  is  still    .    .  641 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  Hill   .  582 

Tlie  quality  of  mercy  is  not  straineil.  .  379 

There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  jiride  179 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods  262 

There  ia  no  death  !  The  btars  go  down  .  461 


FIRST  LINE3  OP  POEMS 


PAGE. 

is  no  flock,  however  watched   .    .  251 

k«re  ia  not  in  this  wide  world   .   .   .  484 

iere's  a  little  low  hut  by  the  river  side  196 

There's  a  story  that's  old 154 

There's  a  funny  tale  of  a  stingy  man    .  581 

There  was  an  old  decanter 87 

The  scene  was  more  beautiful 513 

The  seal  the  sea  !  the  open  seal    .   .   .  362 

These  restless  surges  eat  away  ....  -694 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast  .    .  322 

The  sky  is  clouded,  the  rocks  are  bare  .  258 

The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming   .  137 

The  song  of  Kilvany.     Fairest  she    .    .  547 

The  splenlor  falls  on  castle  walla  .    .    .  436 

The  star  is  not  extinguished  when  it  seta  170 

The  stately  homes  of  England 64 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear  .    .    .  601 

The  sun  s -is  at  night,  and  the  stars  shun  518 

The  sui^iiu  -  a  of  human  life  ....  187 

The  varying  year  with 480 

The  waters  slept.     Night's  silvery  veil  305 

The  way  is  dark,  my  child 334 

The  way  is  dark,  my  Father 333 

They  led  a  lion  from  his  den 565 

They've  got  a  bran  new  organ,  Sue  .    .  588 

They  well  ileserve  to  have 634 

This  book  is  all  that's  left  me  now     .    .  523 

This  is  the  arsenal. 424 

Though  rudely  blows  the  wintry  blast  .  425 

Through  night  to  light.  And  though  .  658 

Through  the  blue  and  frosty  heavens   .  637 

Through  the  gray  willows 517 

Tiger  !  tiger  !  burning  bright 357 

Tim  Twiakleton  was 106 

'Tis  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter  time  .  409 

•Tis  the  soft  twilight.  Round  the   .    .    .  659 

'Tie  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved  484 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds  214 

Toil  on  !  toil  on  !  ye  ephemeral  train  .  .  146 

Toll,  toil,  toll,  toll 184 

Town,  tower 468 

Tread  softly,  bow  the  head 216 

True,  all  we   know  must  die 675 

'Twas  a  ferocious  baggage-man  ....  300 

'Twas  growing  dark  so  terrible  fasht  .■  323 

'Twais  a  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago  .  258 

'Twas  in  my  easy  chair  at  home  ....  429 

Twas  midnight,  not  a  sound  was  heard  165 


PAGE. 

'Twas  on  Lake  Erie's  broad  expanse .  .  40fi 

'Twas  the  eve  before  Christmas 395 

Two  barks  met  on  the  deep  mid-sea  .   .  230 

Two  little  kittons,  one  stormy  night  .    .  229 

Up  from  the  south  at  break  of  day    .   .  536 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn    .  317 

Up  the  airy  mountains 515 

Upon  the  hills  the  wind  is  sharp   .   .  50? 

Upon  the  wall  it  hung 181 

Very  high  in  the  dove-cote 232 

We  are  two  travelers,  Roger  and  I    .   .  ,^30 

We  don't  take  vagrants  in.  sir    ...    .  514 

Well,  wife,  I've  found  the  model  church  544 

We  measured  the  riotous  baby  ....  520 

We  sat  by  the  fisher's  cottage 253 

We  watched  her  breathing 199 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin    ....  201 

We  were  standing  in  the  doorway  .  .   .  401 

What  constitutes  a  state 367 

What  did  you  say,  dear — breakfast  ?  .  .  372 

What  has  my  darling  been  doing  .    .    .  453 

What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about?  .  277 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  .    .  467 

When,  marshalled  on  the  nightly  plain  .  46^ 

When  on  the  world's  first  harvest  day  .  689 

When  sparrows  build 471 

When  spring,   to    woods  and    wastes  402 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld  .   .   .  173 

When  we  hear  the  music  ringing  ...  69 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear    .  82 

Whither  midst  falling  dew 526 

Who  puts  oup  at  der  pest  hotel  ....  297 

Why  all  this  toil  for  triumphs    ....  496 

Wild  blew  the  gale  in  Gibraltar   .   .  236 

With  deep  affection 573 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn  .....  282 

With   sable-draped  banners 192 

Within  this  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees  556 

Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king  .  379 

Wouldst  thou  from  sorrow  find  ....  21S 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around  262 

You  bells  in  the  steeple  ring,  ring  out .  619 

"  You  have  heard,"  said  a  youth  .   .   .  283 

You're  a  kind  woman.  Nan  I    .   .    .    .  393 

You're  surprised  that  1  ever 116 


,^- 


t 


\M 


\ 


\ 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


Sfrip«94H2 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  037  159    9 


